


H 

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V 



PLAYINQ TOSSPM, 


AND OTHER 


PINE WOODS STORIES. 



ADDIE McGEATH LEE. 



“®*One touch of Nature makes the whole world kin.’’ — Shakespeaes. 



BATON ROUGE: 

i^KINTED AT THE TRUTH BOOK AND JOB OFFICE, 
1895. 


Entered According to Act of Congress, 
in the year 1895, 
by Addib McGrath Lee, 

the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, 





' .< 0 *'". i'- *•’ . 





TO MY FATHER, * 

AS A TOKEN OF AFFECTION AND APPRECIATION OF HIS LO\TNG KINDNESS THAT 

> ' 

HAS EVER ENCOURAGED MY LITERARY ASPIRATIONS. 


“Reign and help life, in this our deep desire 
■Our only greatness is that we aspire ." — Jean Ingeloiv. 




\ 



( / 




r 



CONTENTS. 


Playing Tossum. 

The Shiftless Simpsons. 
Uncle Dan’s Divining P\.od. 
Mr. Podsen’s Letter. 
Mending Mandy. 


PLAYING ’POSSUM. 


PAET I. 

The pine needles rnstled with that cadence peculiar to - 
them under ’Nervy Dixon’s feet as she made her way slowly 
up the hilL Haste had no place in her vocabulary, for 
there had been no occasion for hurrying in all her life. She- 
had been in search of an adventurous hen,*wbo had dis- 
dained the hay nests in the shed loft, and “ went a-settin’ 
in a hollow' log down in the woods on her own account. 
’Neivy’s brown apron held nine fluffy chicks, while the* 
mother hen with outstretched wings fluttered here and there^ 
squaking distractedly, taking sudden fright and scurrying 
into the woods, then returning with defiant air hnd the 
proud cluck of proprietorship. 

Seems like yer could sense that I w^asn’t goiii’ to hurt 
’em,” she remarked to the distressed hen, ‘‘I’d let ’em. 
raise out if the varmint’s wouldn’t pester em, but it ain’t 
no use to think yer could do better by ’em than me.” 

The girl stepped lightly over the mounds formed by Titau 
graves of forest trees, going straight through the aisles of ' 
pine trees to the arch of light beyond that looked like the * 
golden gateway of a brighter world but was ouly;her father’s 
clearing after all, where the sunlight fell unbroken at noon-^ 
day, and threw lengthened shadows daily from the woods 
from east to west and from west to east. A forty acre clear- 
ing that gave evidence of its shiftless proprietor by its^ 
unburnt logs and brush heaps, and by the briars and weeds- 
that grew apace with the straggling corn. A plowshare lay 
rusting in the ground where Jerry’s son Lode had turned' 
his last furrow in the Spring. It seemed a pity to have*^ 
mutilated the heart of the forest for such results. Jerry;^” 


PLAYING ’possum. 


3 ' 

and Lode were averse to labor of aoy kind, particularly to 
^at heroic sort called “deadening timber” and “log 
2^>llin^” andhad'not extended their clearing further than 
'wm actually necessary for a bare sustenance. The great 
beech trees standing just outside a straggling rail fence, of 
the antiquated “stake and rider” order had ceased to 
whisper its alarms to the pines and oaks that stood in 
straight limbed loveliness all over the hills down to the 
^myou. The blackberry, leading a host of riotous vines and 
Ijiambles, had clambered down the fence and were in undis- 
puted possession of its corners. In the early spring of every 
year there were tremors of fear among woodland things lest 
Jerry Dixon should extend the unsightly clearing, but the 
fears were unfounded, for the Dixons had each, rather sit 
wpon the banks of the bayou and cast a line lor the elusive 
“goggle-eyed” than open new fields for labor. No thought 
her father’s shiftlessness crossed ’JServy’s mind, for she 
had always lived in an atmosphere of poverty and neglect, 
and it had no surprising phases for her. What did surprise 
her was the sight of a horse and rider coming through the 
woods from the direction from which she had come. 

“ Who kin it be anyhow! ” she ejaculated, trying to trace 
some points of recognition at a distance. As is usual in 
]p®ral districts, the horse came in for first consideration. 
“Ther ereeter do look powerfully like the one Jim Johnson 
rid to meelin’, but it ain’t gaited like it were, as I kin see.” 

But she had no idea of leaving her curiosity ungratified 
asd waited the approach of the rider. 

“He ain’t from these parts,” she concluded, and the dis- 
eovery seemed to overwhelm her with confusion, for she 
stood gazing at the ground, digging her bare toes into the 
mellow surface, and with her disengaged hand she twitched 
»ervously at the strings of her sun bonnet, that hung limp 
over her back,' not doing duty as a headgear on this 
occasion. 

John Morrison was too tired, dusty and thirsty, and 
withal too practical to be susceptible to aitistic impressions, 
the “study in browns” would have been deemed 


TLAYING ’possu:\r. 


worthy of more than the glance that interrogated, not tkc 
girl in meagre brown cotton dress, sun-bonnet, whose 
shapely feet, sunburnt face took on the same warm, brow® 
color, but a living creature who only meant to him a sourae 
from which to derive the information he desired in regaM 
to the timbered lands through which he had just passed. 

Good morning,’’ he said, removing his hat. 

“Howdye !” returned the girl, still looking down, and ^ 
was not until his gaze went beyond her over toward the l<4g 
house that stood on the opposite side of the dealing in oiMi 
shadow of the pines that ’Nervy dared look up. (Jue swifc 
wondering glance told her he was unlike the men she waK 
accustomed to see ar-»und the settlement and placed Mm 
under that comprehensive and exalted category known m 
“ town folks.” 

“ Can you tell me who lives here?” he asked. 

“ Over yonder?” she indicated the direction of the house ’ 
with her head, “Jerry Dixon,” steadily looking down. 

Is he at home ?” asked Morrison. 

“ Not as I knows on, ’less he’s got back sence I left ther.^ 

‘•Could you tell me where I’d be likely to find him?” 

“ Ther ain’t no tollin’ ; like ez not he’ll come ter dinnecs 
and like ez not he w^on’t. Yer ain’t er wantin’ ter see M&l 
ar’ yer?” ’Nervy looked suspiciously at the stranger, an4 
her Avonder grew that any man should desire to see her 
father “o?i businesSj^^ as the stranger explained; she hM. 
never known the like to occur before. 

“ You could go to ther house an’ light, an’ wait fer him 
yer hav’ a mind to,” said ’Nervy, her hospitality banishing 
shyness, “an’ put yer critter under the shed — thei’s CQmi. 
in the shuck pen,” she added. 

“Thank you,” the young man returned, and dismouatiag 
prepared to lead his jaded horse to the point designated. 
The girl walked ahead in her characteristic indolent way^ 
pausing to utter a fierce “shoo e, shoo e !” at the adventur- 
ous hen Avhose chicks she held in her apron, and once 
stopped to watch a squirrel scamper up the trunk of a 


PLAYING ’possum. 




Is game plentiful hereabout?” asked Morrison, with an 
effort at conversation. 

‘‘Them ar, and ther’s a big chance of varmints,” she 
.:ranswered without looking at him. 

The house when reached was not unlike the majority of 
tihose in that section, a two- room structure of pine logs, 
motched and fitted together, the crevices filled in with a 
mixture of mud and moss, the chimney of this same com- 
pound reared its ungainly proportions against one end and 
seemed a pillar to support the cabin that possessed an oblique 
slant in that direction. A long handled gourd, sere and 
brown, hung near the door, a sample of last year’s product 
of a vine that raged rampant over the fence and shed in the 
rear of the house. A clambering tyrannical vine “that 
-wouldncr growed so fine ef gourds were fitten to eat,” as 
’Nervy often declared. She deposited her chickens in a 
coop by the shed while John Morrison put up his horse. 
“I’ll fetch some cool water from the spring ter yer,” said 
she, in a cordial though smileless way, “ an’ yer make yer- 
self at home,” bringing out a chair on the rickety porch, 
but Morrison picked up the bucket from the shelf near the 
steps before she could reach it, saying •. “Tell me the direc- 
ition of the spring and I’ll bring the water myself.” 

This unexpected move caused ’Nervy to remonstrate, “I 
■ain^t never called on company to tote water yit” — but Mor- 
rison only laughed and started ofi on a footpath that led 
back into the woods, surmising that the spring was in that 
direction. 

Jeary Dixon’s world was narrow but he never grew rest- 
less because of its close drawn limits. He knew nothing of 
the glorious arena stretching away beyond his boundaries, 
he knew nothing of the world, for the throbbing of its great 
heart had never stirred the pulses of this remote settlement 
that was hemmed in on one side by the D’Arbonne bayou, 
with its margin of swamp, a stream that at unexpected 
times swelled above its channel, spreading over the swamps 
and impeding travel. Jerry’s world focussed into three 
.joints — the bayou, Hudson’s store, and the cabin in the clear- 


PLAYING ’possum. 


iag. He reached the latter point that August day as John> 
Morrison laved his face, bravely contending with the disad- 
vantage of scooping up the cool water in his hands from af 
shallow pewter basin on the water shelf. Whatever surprise- 
he felt on seeing a stranger domiciled in his abode he gave- 
no sign, probably he felt none, for that emotion was t<x» 
rapid to stir bis sluggish pulse. “ Hyar yer,^^ he said^ 
gravely, then turning to ^Nervy who was washing sweetr. 
potatoes, making ready for the noonday meal. 

Whar’s Lode?’' 

‘‘Dunno ; down at the ferry like ez not.” 

Young Morrison, having finished his ablutions, turned to ^ 
Jerry and shook hands in a friendly manner, saying r 

“Mr. Dixon, my name is Morrison, John Morrison. I 
was prospecting through this section, have been buying up 
white oaks, and have learned at the settlement that you had 
a well timbered strip of land on the bayou there and came • 
to find out if you cared to sell any of your white oak 
timber.” 

Jerry Dixon’s equanimity was not to be disturbed by this 
rapid way of coming to business, and he answered in his 
usual deliberate way : 

“All of them trees ar’ mine down ’twixt here and the- 
bayou, and ther’s a sight of white oaks ’raongst’em. What 
do yer want white oaks fur enny more’n red oak or water- 
or pin oak? I’m got ’em all kinds on that strip.” 

“I have only been buying white oak timber it suits my' 
purpose better than any other, and if you care to sell Fd 
like to know your figures.” 

Jerry had no idea of transacting business in a standing: 
position nor of showing an undue haste lest the stranger 
might fancy him anxious to sell. He motioned his guest 
the chair ’JSTervy had jilaced on the porch, seated himself ocr,. 
a wooden settle, drawing from his pocket his cob pipe^ 
“Minervy,” he called, “bring me a chunk of fire,’^ be-- 
always called her by her full name when laboring under 
strong emotions. The girl appeared carrying a glowing., 
ember between two sticks, flourishing it appallingly near^' 


m 


PLAYING ’POSSU^r. 


Wr fatliei’s immovable countenacce, while placing if on bis 
^ipe. After several moments of smoke enveloped reflections, 
Jerry said : 

^ I never koowed as white oak trees were enny better’ll 
sort ov trees.’’ 

‘^Perhaps their general utility is not greater than other 
^Nnber. but I am getting them for a special purpose. They 
worked up into staves for making wine casks. I have a 
great deal of timber floated down the bayou and I am anx- 
ious to get all out before a low stage of water. I have my 
TBen a few miles above here working their way down through 
Dhe timber.” 

Jerry was not to be hurried in this one business trans- 
aetion of his life, and he gave no sign ot assent nor any sign 
©f the delighted vista he saw opening through the sale of 
Ms white oaks. He saw Lode’s old “dugout” with double 
jsaddle relieved from duty, and in its place a long skiff with 
oars moored to the boat stake. He saw fishing tackle, the 
:§nest the settlement stores boasted of, in his jiossession, and 
when this point of prospective prosperity was reached he 
■was brought to the realities of^ barter and trade by Morrison 
3ftymg rather sharply : 

‘^Well, Mr. Dixon, what are your figures on one hun- 
d&red r’ 

A hundred white oaks! Mister Morrison?” he seemed 
calculating, but to tell the truth Jerry had no knowledge of 
the sale of trees. It was a new departure. He had cut 
down and burned trees to rid his land of them, but had 
never looked upon them as a source of revenue. He could 
Tide in any direction through miles and miles of unbroken 
forests and regarded trees as a burden to the soil, nothing 
3Bore. 

Morrison settled the matter by saying, “I have been 
buiing them at two dollars apiece as they stand.” 

‘^Two hundred dollars!” Jerry was startled at his sto- 
lidity by this sudden accession of wealth, but he reached out 
Ikis hand to Morrison saying, ‘‘ It’s a trade.” 


PLAYING ’P0SSU3r. 


m. 

“ I will have my men down here in about a week,’^ saM 
Morrison. 

•‘Ov course, ov course,’^ responded Jerry mechanically, 

‘‘Minervy.” he suddenly called, is that ’er Lode 
whistlin’ back of the shed?” 

“Like ez not, I seen him er cornin’ through yonder Jeai 
now, but he ain’t got no call to know ’bout them white oaks 
to go blabben all ’round the settlement.” 

“Minervy! how did you know ’bout them white oaks 
yourself, when yer was in the house a git ten dinner?” ht 
asked reprovingly. 

“ I heerd you er talkin’ ez I ain’t deaf and wasn’t goin^ to 
stuff cotton in my ears, to keep 'from hearin’ you all hag 
glin’,” she retorted. 

Lode, the heir apparent of Jerry Dixon’s fortunes, came 
slouching around the corner of the house at this point of the 
conversation and nodded at John Morrison, at the same 
time giving a hitch to his clothes as if they needed encour- 
agement to cling to the long lank figure. 

“ Air dinner ready, ’Nervy ?” he asked. 

‘‘ Ef you’ll just step out th a’ an’ fetch me a few sticks of 
wood I’ll hav’ it ready in no time.” To ’Nervy came € 
sudden inspiration as she beat the corn meal batter, and ske 
whispered to her brother: “Lode, as he’ll be here for 
dinner,” indicating their guest with a nod of her head i«i 
his direction, ’spose you run down to the set line an’ see 
’taint got a fish on it. I’ll have hot water and scald it, 
’twon’t take more’n a minit to scale it, an’ ’twouid heig 
out so.” 

Lode, infected by his sister’s spirit of hospitality, set oct 
with surprising alacrity. 

“ We ain’t got so much,” she mused, as she looked over 
her stock of tableware, consisting of a few plates, three eujps 
with handles intact, a sugar bowl that was heavy enough te 
stand the wear and tear of three generations, and decrep(4 
knives and forks. ’Nervy looked a trifle dissatisfied, and 
scanned the wall of the apartment, which served as general 
living room, as if seeking some adornment for thehospitahk> 


12 


PLAYING ’possum. 


board. Her eyes fell ujion a small plate with edges adorned 
^^instructively, if not artisticall}^, by the alphabet in blue, and 
;a glass mug. These were ’Xervy’s treasures, and had never 
cserved a ba^er purpose than that of ornamenting the mantel 
/sh^lf. 

‘^He do look like a big bug and powerful peart,” said 
■’Nervy as she glanced through the door at Morrison, still 
hesitating whether or rot to use the “chiny ” plate and 
glass mug. The glance decided the matter, and when Lo^^e 
returned he was staggered by the air of gentility lent the 
-festive board by this addition to their tableware. 

The aesthetic value of the glass mug and the educational 
properties of the jilate w^ere lost on John Morrison, who ate 
with keen relish the flaky corn cakes and a portion of the 
-fish that Lode had brought from his set line, and ’Nervy 
■:liad prepared in such haste. He ate with the air of a hungry 
5 man whose business at table is to appease hunger. 

Lode felt that there was an unaccountable elation at his 
^father’s manner, while he himself was overcome by thac 
• embarrassment that ignorance feels in the presence of a 
iisuperior, particularly at table. He ate in silence, watching 
^^he, glass mug, filled with creamy buttermilk at Morrison’s 
.^late, with a strange fascination. ’Nervy stood apart as the 
wthree men ate, only drawing near when her hospitable eye 
«detecte<i any need of their guest. 

After dinner Lode was drawn into the conversation by his 
•father asking : 

“Enny new^s at the store f’ 

■^‘None as I knows on ’cept that Bill Hudson saw a deer 
vtrack in the road down by Lowry’s bridge an’ ’lowed it was 

big buck from the size of the track.” 

•‘‘Yer don’t say so!” exclaimed Jerry with unwonted 
/animation. 

^‘It must be one of ’em come over from the Amos drive, 
?fur ther ain’t been a deer on the Lowry run for fv>ur years. 
Any chance of a hunt. Lode?” 

‘•Wa’al, Bill said if me and you would bring our dogs 
saaid meet Jed and Benson and come ’round to Mason’s old 


PLAYING ’POSSUJI. 


13 


^eld, we’ i be apt to skeer up that same old buck. He said 
how he couldn’t go on account of leaving the store on Satur- 
■day, and the others couldn’t go no other day but Saturday, 
so he said we could have his dogs. Bill would be right 
ther’ arter that deer, but most folks do their tradin’ at the 
settlement store on Saturday,” drawled Lode in explanation 
to Morrison as to why the hunting party was to be deprived 
of the society of Bill Hudson, who was not only owner of a 
half dozen hounds of questionable lineage, but also proprie- 
tor of the one store in the “settlement.” 

“ ni take our dogs,” remarked Jerry as he and Morrison 
sat on a bench in the shadow of the cabin waiting for it to 
^row cooler before Morrison returned to his camp up the 
river. Lode was squatting near them, “sitting on his 
heels,” a position peculiar to him, the two dogs referred to 
were members of this council, two hounds of doubtful pedi- 
,gree, who looked as dejected and cadaverous as only dogs of 
their species can. 

As far as I knows,” continued Jerry, “Bill ain’t got no 
dog in his pack as can start a trail better’ n old Deal, and as 
for Fashion, she hev a cold nose for game and can’t be beat 
in these parts, yer can see for yerself she’s built like er deer, 
she don’t touch the ground nowhere’s when she sights the 
game.” 

Old Deal and Fashion, in the manner of hounds, under- 
standing this eulogy, hung their heads still lower until 
their long ears fairly covered their eyes, while they beat a 
tat!;oo of appreciaiion with their tails upon the sandy ground. 
Lode was moved by his father’s enthusiasm, and added : 

“It ain’t no use trying to judge of this pot licker stock, 
ez they’re called, by looks. Old Deal ain’t no beauty, but 
he hev the grit, his figger ain’t nothin’ to brag on, but he is 
a powerful starter, fur sure, and Fashion, a settin’ there, I 
hev known her to follow a trail as has been cold for two 
days.” At this point of the diagnosis of the canine charac- 
teristics, old Fashion raised her voice in a prolonged hovrl 
as if to join in the discourse, or in remembrance of the 
cold trail ” referred to. 


14 


[playing ’possum. 


John Morrison had the eye of a sportsman and did not 
disdain to study the points of “pot licker stock,” as the 
hybrid hounds of the country are called. To one fond of 
hunting a dog is always an object of interest. 

“I have two English fox hounds np at my camp ; they 
are excellent deer dogs. While I am in the neighborhood I 
would like to join you in your hunts. My dogs are thoroui^h- 
breds, of the famous strain of the Walker dogs of Kentucky. 
I think a great deal of them.” 

Lode looked with increased interest at the stranger, as he 
rose to leave, and joined his father in olfers of hospitality 
and urged him to return and join the hunt on Saturda^^, as- 
they were sure to “jump the old buck.” 

Morrison promised if possible to be there with his dogs at 
sunris-^. Jerry escorted him across the clearing to point out 
a “nigh cut” through the woods to the bayou ford. ’Kervy 
stood on the porch as he mounted his horse. He lifted his* 
hat with a smile of acknowledgment and thanked her for 
her share in his entertainment, for which Jerry would accept 
no remuneration, then rode away leaving the girl looking 
wonderingly after him and her faiher who walked beside 
the rider with unw'onted energy in his step. 

’lowed somebody were cornin’ when thet old red 
rooster crowed on the steps this mornin’,” she said. 


PART II. 

Minerva Dixon, whose classical name had been converted 
into the less dignified abbreviation of “Nervy,” set out for 
the settlement store on Saturday to do some “tradin’.” 
This was a rare event, and to her the store, with its half a 
dozen loungers ruminating on the rickety steps and gallery, 
its gaily colored lithograph in the window of an Indian in 
war paint, drinking beer, its display of canned fruit, its> 
rows of bottles, and its stock of prints seemed a very pre- 
tentious place to her inexperienced eyes. She was not often 
seen at the settlement, and her jiresence excited some- 
interest. 


PLAYING ’possum. 


15 


Hello ! thar’s Jerry Dixon^s gal cornin’ to tlie store,” 
exclaimed one of the outstanders as ’Nervy approached; 
“it ain’t often yer see her ’round about these diggings.” 

“Howdy, ’Nervy; how’s yer pa!” said the proprietor, 
Bill Hudson, a gaunt man with vivid red suspenders that 
supported a pair of gray jeans pants that proclaimed to the 
general public by their stiffness that they were a recent 
acquisition to the wearer^s wardrobe. 

“ He’s tolerable !” responded ’Nervy returning the greet- 
ing, her eyes resting admiringly on the touch of scarlet 
of her questioner’s costume, “he wus right peart 
startin’ on the hunt this moruin’. Been powerful hoped up 
since thet Mr. Morrison come down t’other day. He went 
with ’em ahuntin’ to day. Did yer see them dogs of his’n !” 

Something of a thrill of excitement stirred the loungers ; 
the one seemingly the most inert got up and leaned against 
the doorway when ’Nervy went inside. 

‘ ‘ I ain’ t never seen them dogs, but I heard a man say thet 
has been up the bayou thet they was a clean cut pair of 
hounds, but I give out they ain’t outrunnin’ them dogs of 
mine to day said Bill, proudly. 

“I dunno,” said ’Nervy as she hesitated between a pink 
^nd w^hite, and a blue and white calico. “I dunno nothin’ 
about a dog noway, but them hounds of his’n hev got 
another look about them from our’n. Pa and Lode just took 
on over ’em till I was worried, fur it did look like they 
grudged him ov them.” 

’Nervy had, after much deliberation, finished her pur- 
chases, which were so much more than Bill was accustomed 
to sell to the Dixon family, that his curiosity was piqued. 
What could ’Nervy Dixon wmut of two dresses at once, and 
ribbon, surely she had never indulged in such extravagance 
before, and he ventured on a personal remark with a know- 
ing wink. 

‘‘I should jedge you and Bob was about to make it.” 
^Nervy blushed, but passed over the insinuation in silence, 
and the storekeeper continued. “Bob, he’s been a gittin’ 
out boards fur the longest and Lijah Moses was er tellin’ me 


16 


PLAYING ^POSSUM. 


thet be and er lot er the beys bad been asked over to abonse 
coverin’, and they do say Bob’s ma is er fixin’ up powerful 
fer ber new darter,” be laughed at tbe joke, ‘‘and aims to 
bev a quiltin’ tbe same day ez tbe bouse coverin’, so tbe 
young folks ’round tbe settlement will have a good time^ 
sbo’.” 

Bob Mason, wbo bad been of tbe bunting party that bad 
started from ’Nervy’s borne that morning, bad brought a 
message from bis mother to tbe girl bidding ber come and 
spend tbe day with her in the absence of tbe “menfolks.”' 
Starting early in tbe day, she finished ber ‘^tradin’ ” and 
reached Mrs. Mason’s by 10 o’clock. Mrs. Mason was ou 
tbe porch carding cotton in anticipation of tbe quilting. 
She greeted ’Nervy in a quiet undemonstrative way, as is 
tbe custom of settlors in remote localities, then went on with 
ber carding, tbe soft rolls falling like snow drifts into a 
large basket beside ber. ’Nervy sat down fanning herself 
with ber bonnet. 

I think it’s goin’ to rain, it’s so warm,” she said. 

“I ain’t carin’ if it would, an’ sorter cool off things. Tbe 
sun riz hot. this mornin’.” 

The intense brilliancy of the day made the shadows cast 
by the altbea and peach trees appear as if sketched with 
crayon upon tbe white sandy yard. Tbe sky was so light a 
blue that it looked silver. Against it tbe pine trees of the 
bills and the growth of tbe swamps blackened as the sun 
blazed through tbe August day. Mrs. Mason said : 

“ I aimed to git a couple of quilts put up next week some 
time, and layed olf to bav’ a quiltin’.” 

’Nervy’s face brightened and ber gray eyes lighted up 
with pleasure at the prospect. She pushed back ber hair 
from ber forehead, where it clung damply. It was a gesture 
habitual to ber. 

Her hair was almost a golden in a strong light, and deep- 
ened into a rich brown shadow, waving slightly over a 
forehead, white by nature but tanned to a rich warm color. 

The shadows were too darkly accentuated for beauty, that 
lay under ber eyes, which were of that peculiar shade that 


PLAYING ’possum. 


17 


flash with blue lights, under pleasurable emotions, and are 
pure gray when in a quiescent state, and perhaps had been 
black with intense feeling, but there had been no intense 
moments in ’Nervy’s life. There had been no passion gustSy 
no hopes and no heighths of emotion to gauge, nothing but 
a dead level of monotonous existence.. 

Her mother died when she was eight years old, and that 
one grief had left no scar. In the eleven years that had 
followed she had lived with her father and Lode, in one 
cabin or another, in a sort of migratory way until they 
settled at their present home four years ago. Mrs. Mason 
had been her mother’s friend, and had befriended ’Nervy in 
many ways, even to offering no objection when her only son 
Bob fell in love with her and by assiduous “keepin’ com- 
pany” had won the girl’s consent to marry him. Mrs. 
Mason had proved a valuable coadjutor to her son, for when 
’Nervy had said she could not leave her father and Lode 
wflth no ‘‘wimmin kin to do for them,” Bob’s mother 
replied. ^‘Shaw, yer pa ez likely to git some one to look 
after him, ef he didn’t have you, and Jerry Dixon ain’t no 
bad sort ef he does look fur easy places,” and so ’Nervy had 
been brought to see it was best for her to marry Bob Mason,, 
and Jerry Dixon looked with favor on the match. 

’lowed,” continued Nervy’s hostess, as she plied her 
cotton cards, “I’d hev you come over the day before and 
help me cook up a sight of things,” ’Nervy assented, “that 
is ef you ain’t too busy yerself. Bob sed ez how’d you fixed 
the day between you the second Monday in September.” 

’Nervy looked out across the sandy yard, so blinding hot 
and white, and then, as if to rest her eyes, upon the dark 
green distance of the pines. Mrs. Mason waited a moment^ 
and seeing no responsive gesture, went on : 

“Bob said as how it was the most convenientest time, for 
Bro. Jones comes through on his circuit on the second Sun- 
day, and would stay over to marry you all. Bob said you 
didn’t set no store on a justice of the peace a marryin’ of 
yer.” 

’Nervy felt no shyness in discussing the matter with her- 


18 


PLAYING ’possum. 


prospective mother in-law. It had been under considera- 
tion many times, but somehow that morning she felt a 
•strange reluctance in talking about her wedding day. Mrs. 
Mason was a widow, her two daughters were married and 
settled up in what is known as the “Rabbit Walk” neigh- 
borhood near the Arkansas line, and only paid visits to 
their mother at long intervals. She welcomed the idea of 
'’Nervy’s companionship, as her son’s wife, and her mind 
recurred constantly to the theme, and as they cleared up the 
<linner dishes she said : 

“Hev you been sewin’, Nervy f” 

“Never had nothin’ to sew till to-day for a good wdiile, not 
«ince pa sold the yearling to Mr. Hudson. Change la; 
been scarce at our house, but I did some tradin’ to- day,” 
•and the blue and w^hite calico, a white lawn dress, the ribbon 
and thread, a bit of lace, a handkerchief with a pr n ed 
border, and a pair of shoes were proudly exhibited. “I 
^llus ’lowed to get me a white dress and ihe blue and white 
one will do for the quiltin’ down here.” 

“Bob he sed fer me to hev a quiltin’ and it would save 
trouble, the same day as the coverin’ come off, and then as 
the gals wer’ a quiltin’ and the boys a coverin’ all day, it 
'’pear like to hev a sort of gatherin’ at night would be ther 
thing.” 

Mrs. Mason was not averse to a “gatherin’,” and ’Nervy 
entered into the scheme of hospitality eagerly, of course ; 
the quilts had to be quilted and the shed room and the new 
barn covered. It was the custom in many settlements for 
neighbors to assist each other in work of this kind, and the 
^young men enjoyed the prospect of a “log rollin’ ” or “house 
raisin’” or “house coverin’,” for it meant a bounteous 
repast of baked pork, chicken pie, homemade sausage, 
boiled custard and blackberry and peach pie. It meant that 
a number of the settlement belles would wait on them at 
at table, and then to end up the day’s labors with a dance 
in the house that was raised, or the barn that was covered, 
was enjoyment indeed. 

It was growing late when ’Nervy made her wmy home- 


PLAYING ’possum. 


19 


ward, through great aisles of the forest, where the pine» 
swing censors of sweet incense and the air was filled with 
the melody of the orchestra that plays unceasingly in the 
woods made up of the buzz of insects, the tapping of the 
crimson headed woodpecker, the sudden flutter of hawk, the 
rasping of locusts, the staccato call of the cardinal bird, the 
croak of the wood frogs, the whirring of wings and rust- 
ling ot leaves. This woodland symphony falls unheeded: 
on ’Xervy’s ears, so accustomed w^ere they to these 
sounds. She had no thought of the arches of leafy silver 
overhead, a ceiling beyond the conception of the most 
skillful artisan. Her eye^ found no beauty in the tree- 
trunks crusted with enamel, the fallen 1o;j;s that have bor- 
rowed the sheen and shades of costly things, the glow of 
bronze, the glitter of emerald, the fretted gold of the sun- 
light falling through the foliage^ upon the path she trod. A. 
great snowy fungi stood in tiie way, smooth like polished 
ivory on the outside, with soft brown velvety lining. 
’Nervy crushed it under foot, its very existence was objec- 
tionable to her. ^‘Toad stools is rank pizen” she said, as if 
in explanation to herself. The sound of a hunting horn in, 
the distance fell upon her ears, she paused and listened. 
Again it sounded, clearer, louder, a prolonged note, sweet 
and resonant, beyond the woods. She still waited ; again it 
came, low, tremulous, then swelling louder until it reached 
its full volume, to die away into enchoes that seemed liker 
elfin voices scarting up all around her. 

“They’ve killed a deer, certain,” she exclaimed; ^They 
alius blows three times when they gits ,near home. She 
hastened her steps a trifle and was soon in sight of the cabin 
which the hunters had reached but a few moments before.. 
She was greeted by a loud baying of the hounds. Old 
‘‘Deal” and “Fashion,” elated by the da.\’s successful hunt,, 
led the charge upon her, followed by the yelping pack. 

“Down Kally ! Dowm Koebuck !” called Morrison to his> 
dogs, that turned at the sound of his voice and fawned 
apologetically at his feet. 

The onset on ’Nervy changed to demonstrations of afiec^ 


-20 


PLAYING ’possum. 


tioo at her nearer approach on the part other father’s dogs, 
while those of Bill Pltidson’s, seeing their leaders’ deflection, 
became silent and wagged their tails in a manner that was 
Jiieant to indicate they saw their mistake and were sorry 
5for it. 

‘‘Who killed itf’ she asked of the men. 

“He shot it at 60 yards,” her father said, pointing ta 
Morrison, who looked rather proud of his prowess, as he 
-exhibited a great pair of antlers. A division had been 
made of the venison and Bob Mason was on his horse ready 
to leave, with his part of the spoils, and Bill Hudson’s also» 
for as the latter was represented by his dogs he was entitled 
to equal share. 

“You take Bill his venison,” said ’^Tervy’s father, who was 
master of ceremonies, “ez you’re passin’ that way, and tell 
him. Bob, thet Mr. Morrison’s dogs was half an hour ahead 
of our dogs. Tell him it ain’t in no pot licker stock to jine 
yokes with his’n. You tell Bill jest how that black and 
white spotted hound trailed and jumiDed thet deer. Pshaw ! 
I don’t know ez I’d hev the heart to hunt any more ’thout 
;them dogs of Mr. Morrison’s,” he said. 

“I’ll tell him,” said Bob, giving glances at ’Yervy that 
were full of bashful admiration, and had none of that air of 
proud certainty one finds in an accepted lover. Morrison 
was looking at her also, and by some occult reasoning, it 
•■seems that somehow or somewhere he had seen her or some 
one that resembled her at that moment — perhaps it was 
«ome picture of which she reminded him, standing there 
tall and straight, the dogs leaping around her. He had not 
noticed her particularly before, but now she seemed to con- 
trast strongly with the group of men, the horses, the dogs. 
There was a sense of reserve force, and a strong contained 
manner that made her difterent from the lather and brother. 
.8he calmly surveyed the scene, unabashefl, observant, until 
her eyes for a moment met Morrison’s. Then self-conscious- 
ness returned under his gaze and a faint color came into 
her face; she turned toward Bob Mason and said in her 
^ven, drawling monotone, “ Whyu’t yer stay to supper 1” 


PLAYING ’possum. 


21 


“Bob looked -as if the temptation was strono*. but lie 
remembered the evening ebores at home, and said, “I must 
git home; ain’t no one ter do the feedin’ but me, and ma 
she’d like ter bite some of the venison fur supper herself. 
It’s a gittiu’ late, so I’ll ride,” and suited the action to the 
word. 

“Lode, yer git some lightard and start a fire, fur you all 
mils’ be cravin’ hungry by now.” 

Morrison had accepted the invitation to stay for supper, 
laughingly saying that the cooks at camp would spoil the 
venison, and it had been long since he had had the oppor^ 
tunity of enjoying any, for venison was a luxury in the 
towns, he explained. 

A breeze sprang up at sundown and seemed to light the 
sultry air like a veil from the earth. Jeiry Simpson, Lode 
and John Morrison discussed the day’s hunt outside of the 
house, at least the two former did, reiterating again and 
again its every incident. Morrison leaned lazily back on 
the wooden bench and watched the fireflies lighting the 
strip of swamp in the direction of the bayou. 

’Nervy was busy within doors, and her shadow thrown by 
the firelight fell through the open doorway upon the porch, 
now and anon, and sometimes touching Morrison’s shoulder 
as she moved here and there preparing supper. The savory 
odor of venison permeated space and whetted the appetites 
of £he hungry men. 

It was after the meal was finished and the men had again 
adjourned outside to enjoy the breeze and to smoke, that 
’Nervy went out and sat in the deep shadow on the porch, 
saying, “It’s mos’ too warm to go in the house when you 
get sleeepy even.” 

Morrison sat on the steps smoking, full in that square of 
light from the doorway. ’Nervy in the darkness could 
observe him without being seen. She found a strange 
pleasure in looking at Morrison, not that his was a handsome 
face, but it was not unpleasant nor was it a strong intel- 
lectual face, but had a pleasing breadth of brow and bright, 
dark eyes that looked meditative at the moment ’Nervy was 


22 


PLAYING ’possum. 


studyino- his face. It was lier first opportunity and she- 
noted how well shaped his haiuls were, ami how different 
his manner and his mov’ements were from the men she bad 
been accustomed to see and meet. 

The light formed a sort of halo about his head, touching 
the crisp brown locks with gold. John Morrison was not 
aware that he wore this halo of light and that ’Xervy’s eyes 
were regarding him, nor did the girl know that as she 
watched him that she was making a deity of him. An owl 
hooted in a iree near by, the fireflies lit the lower earth in 
rivalry of the stars overhead, there was a low murmur of 
the pines, and the breeze stirred the leaves of the gourd 
vine. 

’^ervy scarcely moved lest she attract attention to her- 
self Morrison and the two men smoked silently. The 
former was in a reflective mood, rather unusual to him, but 
his surroundings were unusual. “Were these conditions of* 
life necessary he mused j “was this a phase that had any 
special bearing on the general plan of the universe f Was 
this an essential unit tliac went towards making a jierfect 
civilization? Did life after all mean only the measure of a 
soul, and that soul aspiring to nothing beyond material 
needs?” he questioned of himself. “The God-given mental 
faculties being narrowed down to consider only physical 
wants rather than spiritual. Had they no ideals in this 
life? Was it only the real facts of every day existence tlwat 
counted lor anything in the cycle of progress Morrison 
found himself wondering it these i>eople, after all, were not 
the philosophers of the world. Each day brought its full 
measure ot contentment j there were no unfulfilled dreams 
of yesterday, no pledges for to-morrow. 

His cigar had burned itself out, and he rose to ride 
towards his camp, going through the summer darkness, 
^Nervy listening to the tread of his horse’s fed until distance 
silenced them. 

Jerry said suddenl}-, “I’d give fifty white oaks fur them 
dogs or his’n,” and Lode, who had learned of his father’s 
business transaction, and while rejoicing in their good 


PLAYING ’possum. 


23 


fortune, set no g^reat value on wliite oaks, as they stood in 
the woods, added : 

‘^i’d give er hundred oaks, if I didn’t hev to cut ’em down, 
fur them dogs.*’ 

‘‘I hev sold Mister Morrison a hundred trees a’ul I don’t 
know ez there’s many more on that strip; en I don’t reckon 
ez how he’d want enny more, but I’d just give him the 
balance lur one of thein hounds,” returned Jerry. 

‘^You all seem powerful sot on them dog^,” said ’Nervy, 
tersely. She was impatient that her father and brother 
could dwell so upon the dogs and not the owner of them. 
For herself she only knew that she had seen the two white 
and black spotted hounds, bes'de Morrison, that his hand, 
well shaped, though tanned, had caressed them. He had 
their long ears between his lingers and patted their cold 
liointed noses affectionately, but beyond this she could tell 
Clothing about them, and listened, only interested, because 
they belonged to the stranger who had come so unexpectedly 
into her life. 

Her father, in his drawling tone, was persistent upon the 
theme, 

‘•It was a sight to see them hounds in the drive,” he said. 
^•I wus a making it, ’Nervy, and yer know thet was an old 
buck, and he wouldn’t run reg’lar; he’d start out ov the 
drive and then dodge and take the back track. He’d a 
f«>oled thet old Deal and Fashion of mine, and thet brag dog 
Jake of Bill Hudson’s a half a dozen times, but he wasn’t a 
foolin’ ov them sharp nosed dogs, which Mr. Morrison says 
corneal from Kentucky. They jest opened on the trail and 
kep’ it. They let out and went so fast thet Fashion got dis- 
couraged and stood still under a big gum tree and howled — 
«he did look like some little fellow as his playmates had run 
away from and hid. Them black and white spotted dogs. 
Rally aisd Roebuck ain’t goin’ ter ’sociate with no sech dogs 
as our’n ; they gits up and goes, and when they jumped thet 
buck 1 tell YOU they stayed with him, and wasn’t fifty yards 
behitid him when he struck out by the standers.” Jerry 
and his son were excited by the memory of that run, and 
liode struck in ; 


24 


PLAYING ’possum. 


^‘Eii Mister Morrison slio’ is a fine shot, to risk at sixty 
yards! I’m powerful ^lacl he will be ’round about hyar fur 
two or three weeks.” 

’^Mervy felt pleased at the prospect also, but only said : 

“Bob and his nia is goin’ to give a house coverin’ and 
quiltin’ same time one day next week, and they air lookin’’ 
fur all ov us.” 

“En Mrs. Mason air one ov them good cooks,” said Jerry 
imiiressively. 


PART III. 

It was one of those storms that come up suddenly in 
August, after days of intense heat, a storm with brilliant 
electrical displays, fierce jagged streaks tollowed by heavy 
thunder, while the edges of the horizon were illumined 
almost continually by “sheet lightning,” a fiery glow that 
seems to lift up the black storm cloud and let in a glow 
from some glorious far away resliri. The wind beat against 
the low log cabin with impotent rage, to wreak its ven- 
geance further on in twisting the great branches from the 
trees and sending them twirling down, barring the wood- 
land paths and blocking up the highways. A downpour of 
rain accompanied the wind, blown and beat about, but soak- 
ing and drenching things and filling the dried stream beds 
and gulleys with turbid, yellow waters, that riotously hur- 
ried towards the bayou, where the waters rose rapidly as 
the hillsides fed it. It was an unexpected finale to a morn- 
ing of sunshine and a noonday of intense brilliancy. It 
seemed as it the moisture gathered during the long summer 
days from the woods, the fields, the streams, had been 
stored up and returned suddenly to earth. 

’Nervy watched the storm from the window, giving the 
weather signals to her hither and Lode, who half dozed in 
the dusky interior of the room. A few embers, the remnant 
of fire on which she had cooked dinner, smoldered on the 
hearth, and both men and dogs had drawn near the fire- 


PLA^YmO ’possum. 


25 


place, clnlled by the sudden cliange in the temperature. 
Suddenly ’2!servy turned and said : 

“Lode, Avhar wus Mister Morrison goiid when he passed 
here jest as we got up from dinner I seen you er talkin’ 
to him by the fence.” 

“He ’lowed he wus goin’ to the settlement to see ef enny 
letters hev cum fur him,” answered Lode, drowsily. 

’Nervy stood silent again, looking out at the rain and the 
ominous clouds that seemed to touch the trees at the edge 
of the clearing. There was a sharp note, a tension of sud- 
den anxiety in her voice when she spoke again. 

“Does he know the crosain’ gits swimmin’ when ther’s 
heavy rain 

Lode looked up uneasily, “Not as I knows on ; it ain’t 
never cum up to talk about it. We ain’t had no rain fur 
the longest, en I didn’t hev no call ter tell him,” he said 
explanatorily, as if there was a vague accusation in her 
tone, and he was excusing himself. 

“Thar ain’t no way fur him to git back ’thout crossin’ the 
bayou, and he never hev cum ’round by the upper ferry. If 
.he cum thet way he might cross ther’ by iDullin’ over iu ther 
flat, tur ther ferryman ain’t down ther’ arter sundown, not 
as ther’ is enny sun ter go down ter-day,” she said. 

“Like ez not he’ll stay down at ther settlement ter-night ; 
no man as has got his sense is goin’ to try an’ make his way 
in sech a storm ez this. Bill Hudson is considerable took 
with him, an’ his dogs, en will be rnore’n likely ter make 
him stay there.” 

“But supposin’ he wus to try ther crossin’,” said ’Nervy, 
“in ther dark? He couldu’t see ther other bank, and ther’s 
deep sink holes ’long side of ther reg’lar crossin’.” 

“He’s got a good horse en can swim it then, but it ain’t 
no sensible man as will leave shelter in sech a rain ez this.” 

’Nervy was not satisfied with this decision, but she knew 
the folly of suggesting that Lode or her father go and meet 
the stranger and guide him in the storm. No, it was not to 
be expected of them j there was danger of the falling trees, 
and then why should they put themselves to such trouble 


26 


TLAYING 'POSSUM. 


for one who had not the slightest claim on them I ^Nervy 
knew this and reasoned that Morrison would not ventnre 
from the settlement, whither he had gone; bnt when night 
fell and the wind and rain abated, her anxiety returned. 
Her father and Lode had ‘darned in” early, as they ex- 
pressed it, and ’Xervy knew by their measured breathing^ 
that their dreams were not disturbed by thought of Morri- 
son’s safety. She wondered if he would not attempt return- 
ing since the rain had ceased ; he had probably no expe- 
rience with these streams, knew nothing of their sudden 
rising and falling. She seemed to see him smile and bow 
as he was accustomed to do when he passed there. She had 
seen him often during the last week, for he had moved his 
camp, with its teams and laborers, just below the house and 
the work of cutting timber on her father’s land was going 
on. She had met him once at the spring when she had 
gone for water, and he had taken her bucket from her hand 
and filled it for her, carrying it up the hill in spite of her 
protest “thet it warn’t no heavier than she was used to.’^ 
In answer he said he would not let any woman carry a 
bucket of water when a great lazy fellow like himself wa.s 
loafing about. A soft light came into ’Xervy’s eyes as she 
remembered this, and taking up an old blanket that lay on 
the floor, she thiew it around her shoulders, gathered ujr 
some pine knots. Slie thrust one of them into the dying 
embers, and when it flared up brightly, removed it and with 
the flaming torch stepped lightly from the room, closing the 
door without a sound behind her. 

It was intensely dark; the night seemed to drop like a 
black wall beyond the circle of light her torch threw. There 
was no hesitation, however, in the girl’s movements, and 
she went on with the sad dripping of raindrops from flie 
trees falling on her unprotected head. Occasionally a gust 
of wind, forgotten by the late storm, swept through the 
woods with an eerie sound, threatening to extinguish the 
light she carried. It was a strange hour for a woman to be 
abroad, but she had no thought of her unconventional pro- 
ceedings. She was thinking only of the ford with its ugly 


PLAYING- ’possum. 


27 


current, and the possibility of Morrison reaching it before 
she did. She was forced to proceed cautiously by the un- 
certain flickering light, for broken boughs lay across the 
path and wet leaves and moss were clinging to her bare 
leet. 

Like some Druid priestess celebrating a mysterious rite, 
she passed under the leafy arches, a figure in a circle of 
light, with white, tense face and hair hanging in wild dis- 
order over her shoulders. Once something rushed through 
the woods near her, she heard the branches crackle beneath 
a hurried tread, ^dt’s a varmint of some natui-y^ she said 
to herself, ‘‘a skeered ov the light.” Ahead of he'r two great 
eyes stared out of the darkness, great fiery eyes 
that met her with fierce, intent gaze. A tremor seized 
’Aervy for a moment, then recovering herself she 
ejaculated: ‘‘Shaw ! I was a shinin’ an owl’s eyes,” and the 
grave bird with the burning orbs blinked as she drew near 
and [passed on, and then wdth a wisdom belonging to his 
race, asked of all the inhabitants of the forests, “Whoo — 
who-o — who-o f ’ 

There are spirits of woodland things abroad at night ! 
Inanimate objects discourse in their own weird way with 
one another, the hillside streams murmur louder their dis- 
content to the wayside reeds, and the pines change their 
daytime sighing to restless moaning at night. There are 
fleeting forms and phantoms lurking here and there, shad- 
ows that rise up and spring away as ’Nervy’s pine torch 
flares and extends its radius. Long searching rays dart out 
into the blackness, bearing the bayou the black mud 
oozed up around her ankles at each step, but she heard 
the swift rush of waters and the gurgle of' waves among the 
driftwood along the shore and hurried on, her one thought, 
her one consideration was Morrison’s safety. 

It seemed that she had already mapped out her jilans, so 
leisurely did she proceed to light a fresh pine knot, then 
^5tick it erect upon the dank when she reached the bayou. 
The ford that ’Xervy had waded across only a week ago 
was now a rushing torrent, the muddy waters filling the 


23 


TLAYIXG ’possum. 


wide cbaiinel. The girl strained lier ears to catch a sound 
upon the other bank, but heard only the splashing of water. 
She knew the exact spot where Lode’s ‘hlugout” was mooi'ed. 
The boat stake was above high water mark, she could hear 
the dull thumping of the little boat against the shore, a 
creaking of the chain as it strained at it. 

’Nervy had time and again paddled the “dugout” up and 
down the stream ; she had spent whole days fishing with 
Lode upon the bayou in the little craft that was hewn from 
a solid log and propelled by 'one short oar, with a paddle on 
each end, called a “double paddle.” She wondered if her 
“lightard knots” would hold out until he came. She placed 
them in the boat, cautiously lighting another as one burned 
low, then pushed out carefully from shore. It was hard 
work to hold the “dugout” against the current. In spite of 
’Nervj’s vigorous efforts it swung around with the tide and 
back against the bank, but she i^ushed off again and with 
deep strokes held the boat’s head in the direction of the 
opposite shore. If she could keep in the shallow ford she 
knew she had nothing to fear, for the sand bar that stretched 
across there seemed to break the force of the waters, but 
’Nervy had only instinct to guide her, for the light halt 
blinded her, she could see nothing ahead, and only when 
the boat grated on the shore did she know that she had 
crossed salely. It was the work of a moment to spring out 
on the muddy bank and secure the boat, and not until then 
did ’Nervy know that she was trembling with suppressed 
excitement. 

“It was powerful skeery,” she said, and laughed nervously. 

One by one she lit the pine knots and waited, slowly deter • 
mining in her mind to wait until morning if John Morrison 
did not come, rather than cross the bayou alone again that 
night. 

She heard a sound away up the road. It was tlie sound 
she was expecting, that of a horse’s feet, and yet it startled 
her. Suppose it should not be the expected horseman, 
what then ? ’Nervy, who had never experienced any rapid 
sensations during all her placid, nay stagnant existence, 


TLAYING ’possum. 


29 -' 


was chilled by a sudden apprehension. She came of a slow 
thinking race, and her thoughts were wont to come in » 
sluggish manner, but there was a newly developed activity 
in her brain that nighr. She had knowm no fear of creature, 
human or otherwise, but the sound of the rider coming 
nearer filled her with a sudden jaanic and she darted away 
behind a tree, where the shadows were darkest. If it were- 
Morrison she would see him by the pale flickering torch she- 
had left burning on the bank, and if not she was in safe hid- 
ing. ’Nervy thought, after a moment’s reflection, that on 
this unfrequented byway it was scarcely possible there was- 
another belated t;;:*aveller abroad. The hour was not so late 
but night had fallen so early, and the time had seemed end- 
less to ’Nervy. Morrison, who had waited at the settlement 
store until the storm was over, was trusting to his horse to 
guide him safely to camp. He had been over the route sev- 
eral times and had taken note of the landmarks, as one- 
accustomed to the woods is apt to do, but they availed him 
nothing in th*e darkness that seemed to close around him in 
a stifling manner. 

He reined his horse sharply as he saw" the light upon the- 
bayou bank and sat for a moment looking at it when his^ 
horse jumped suddenly to one side. ’Nervy had started 
from the shadows, questioning in her glad recognition of 
him : 

‘Ts thet you. Mister Morrison 

If some goblin had risen up from the water sogged earth 
before Morrison his sur^wise would not have been more com- 
plete. 

‘^Great Scott ! ’Nervy Dixon ! What on earth are you 
doing here at this time of night f’ he exclaimed. 

’Poor ’Nervy ! she did not think she had done anj’thing 
out of the common ; the emergency of the case seemed to 
demand such action, and yet there was consternation and 
condemnation in his question. 

‘‘Ther water riz,” she said, her slowness of thought and 
speech returning to her, “an’ yer can’c cross ’thout swim- 
min’.” 


30 


PLAYING ’possum. 


It did not occur to him even then jthat she had come to 
meet and warn him. That she had ventured so much for his 
safety, but through his mind there flashed’ a strong distrust, 
and he asked : 

“Where is your father, or your brother?” 

The light was burning low. ’^ervy took it in her hand 
and lit the last splinter of pine she had brought with her. 
i^he stood looking up at him, her eyes black with intensity 
of feeling, groping with the vague sense of his disapproval, 
not understanding the grave questioning of his eyes, only 
iinowing that somehow he was not ifleased with her. Slowly 
her eyelids fell, and something like a shiver passed over her ; 
she turned towards the bayou, saying : 

“Lode’s ‘ dugout’ is on this side, I kin cross yer, fur yer 
oan’t ride ’crost it. Yer had better drive yer critter in and 
make him swim it ahead of yer.” 

Morrison saw the wisdom of this suggestion, and did as 
she bade him ; his horse, taking to the water, kept steadily'' 
on. They strained their eyes through the darkness to see if 
he reached the bank safely, and they heard the animal when 
he gained a footing there. 

Morrison and ’Yervy seated themselves in the small boat, 
the latter cautioning her companion, “Set steady,” she said, 
“an’ hold the light,” for Morrison admitted he was not an 
oarsman and was perfectly unfamiliar with the “double 
paddle’^ propeller. 

He looked at the girl’s impassive face curiously as the 
light fell upon it. He saw her hair was wet and blown 
about, and that she was bare footed, with a blanket thrown 
about her shoulders. She had not been to the settlement, 
nor to Mrs. Mason’s for in the first case her toilette did not 
befit such an outing, and in the second Mrs. Mason, nor Bob 
Mason, whom he knew was to marry ’Kervy soon, would 
not have permitted her to leave their house unaccompanied 
at such an hour. He would not question her, but he hoped 
that she would explain her presence there. 

The girl bore his scrutiny steadily. She was bending 
«very energy to reach the opposite side before their torch 


PLAYING ’POSSCM. 


SI 


gave out. She wondered why he looked afc her in that 
questioning way, and challenged him with a remark that 
jarred upon him. 

“I reckon yeihe settin^ and thinkin^ yer^re got a skeer- 
crow fur company f’ She laughed, because her lips trem- 
bled and a sob was rising in her throat. 

“No, I was not thinking that, but you have been in tbe^ 
rain, youf hair is wet,” he said. 

“It’s the drip from the trees,” she returned, holding the^ 
prow of the boat against the shore. “Yer jump out and 
ketch ther chain*” ’Nervy laid down the paddle with a 
sense of release. The light had burned out and they were- 
in complete darkness, the girl was still in the boat and Mor- 
rison on shorow 

^‘Give me your hand ; jump here.” ’Nervy did not accept 
his proffered aid, but in a moment stood beside him. 

“Have you any more pine? It is fearfully dark, I have 
some matches in my pocket,” he said. 

“All ,the light’ard’s done burned out, an’ it’s so wet it 
ain’t no use lookin’ fur ennything that will burn. Efyer 
follow me I can find ther way ’thout enny light as fur ez our 
house.” 

Morrison could ride in the night over unaccustomed wajs^ 
but found it difficult to keep pace with ’Nervy through the 
woods. His horse he knew would make straight for camp. 

He felt no particular gratitude towards ’Nervy and wa& 
rather aggrieved that he must escort her home on foot^ 
imagining he was her protector, rather than that she was- 
his guide. 

“Mister Morrison,” she said once, “be keerful, ther’s a 
right smart sink ’long here.” 

He was not in a mood to be appreciative, and few men 
can be aggreeable when uncomfortable, as he answered 
shortly, ‘-These confounded stumps and branches neai'ly 
throw a fellow down.” 

“It wus a heavy blow and the woods is jest torn all ter 
pieces,” she said. 


■32 


PLAYING ’possum. 


They were almost to the clearia^ then, and they could see 
it growing lighter in that direction. 

‘‘Ef yer don’t mind yer needn’t tell Pa nor Lode ’bout 
ineetin’ ov me at the ford,” she said to him as they came 
into the clearing. 

Morrison was annoyed. Why should she want him to 
keep silent, or why should she expect him to inform her 
relatives that she was roaming through the woods presuma- 
bly alone, late in the night. He said impatiently : 

^‘You should not do anything that you are ashamed to 
tell your father and brother ! 

’Nervy tvas looking overhead at the drifting clouds, here ^ 
and there a star was visible. She did not understand the 
reproach and said, drawin’ a little nearer to him : 

^‘Yer see, a heap ov times we don’t see ther same way, an’ 
an’ — ” she hesitated, ^‘they am powerful hands to poke fun 
at me.” 

Morrison was indignant at her lack of propriety and the 
-deception practiced on her legitimate guardians. He was 
puzzled, for ’Nervy, though uncultured and very ignorant, 
had a natural grace coupled with self-reliance. More than 
-once he had thought of her as a self respecting young wo- 
man, and wondered how the Dixon household would arrange 
itself withqut her. 

She went about her daily labors placidly ; there seemed to 
have been no deeper under currents to her nature, but this 
was an unexpected phase in her character. He thought of 
her lover. Bob Mason, for since the hunt, and their occa- 
sional chance meetings, he had formed the opinion that he 
was a very clever fellow for his opportunities, which had 
been poor indeed. What would he think of this escappade ! 

‘‘Yer won’t tell, Mr, Morrison!” she asked again, sur- 
jirised at his silence. 

“Of course not,” he answered impatiently; “here we are. 
It is 11 o’clock,” striking a match and looking at his watch. 

‘It is clearing off ; I’ll not be many minutes finding camp. 
<jOod night !” 

He turned away leaving ’Nervy with a thought vainly 


PLAYING ’possum. 


33 


struggling to shape itself into words. She saw him going 
without a word of thanks'? Going away with signs of dis- 
approval. Every word ne had uttered came back distinctly 
in his cold, sarcastic tones. She seemed stunned by a blow 
when the truth flashed upon her. He had not understood 
that she had gone to the bayou for his sake. What had he 
thought of her ? No, he should not misunderstand her or 
misconstrue her motive, and she must tell him. Morrison 
was swinging along at a good gait, now that he was in the 
open road, when he heard swift steps behind him, a patter 
of bare feet. ’Nervy panted : 

^‘Mr. Morrison, wait, I want ter tell yer.” 

^•Well, what nowf’ he said, sharply. 

‘‘I— I — went er purpose to the bayou to take the dugout 
’crost fur yer. It gits swimmin’, and onc’t er man wus 
drowned down ther crossin’. He wus a stranger in these 
parts, and didn’t know ’bout it, and I couldn’t help it when 
Lode sed ez how you had gone to ther settlement ter see ef 
enny letter hev cum fur yer. I wus used to ther woods and 
it warn’t no trouble to sech ez me ter be out in ther weather, 
an’ — ” her voice broke, “an’ yer horse might hev got in a 
sink hole an’ a drowned yer.” 

Morrison had no words at his command to express him- 
self. He was strangely touched, not so much by her act as 
by his recent injustice towards her. He was not romantic, 
indeed there was scarcely any one more practical than him- 
self, and he could only say in his matter of fact way : 

'What did you do it for ? You will catch your death of 
cold ! Do not do it again. Why, it’s awful to think of. 
Something might have happened to you.” He took her 
hands. “It was a plucky act, but shaw ! I’m not worth it.” 
She drew her icy fingers away from him and put them to 
her burning face. 

“I done it ’cause yer , ’cause yer hoped pa ’long, buy- 

ing of his white oaks.” 

Morrison laughed, and ’Nervy turned swiftly and left him. 
He had very little vanity, and knew less about the vagaries 
of ^omen, so it never occurred to him that it might be a per- 


34 


PLAYING ’possum. 


sonal interest that prompted the girl. He thought over the- 
events of the evening and exclaimed : 

‘^I’ll be blamed if her name doesn’t suit her, for it showed 
considerable nerve in a woman to go through that swampy 
strip and cross the bayou alone at night.” 

’Nervy in the meantime had noiselessly entered her home. 
There was no buoyancy in her steps j she was exhausted 
mentally and physically, and felt an indefinable anger 
against herself. 

‘^He will sho’ think them white oaks has stirred us up a 
sight, but it’s a heap bettei’n fur him to know the — ” she 
hesitated, then added “thet yer alius wus a fool, ’Nervy 
Dixon, all yer days.” 


PAET lY. 

The older women said amon^ themselves at the quilting 
that Jerry Dixon’s gal wus er cornin’ outer ther ashes,” 
when they saw the blue and white calico frock. Not that 
the fabric was unusual, lor most of the girls around the set- 
tlement could boast of “kaliker” dresses, but ’Nervy had 
been less fortunate than the majority of them, and usually 
wore a scant brown or blue cottonade dress, or “homespun’^ 
as it is called. A little vanity on her part was pardonable, 
and she was pleased to note that the blue ribbon she had 
purchased of Bill Hudson contrasted efi'ectively with her 
brown hair. The men folks, susceptible to the influence of 
the becoming attire of the prospective bride, said she ^ Vus 
gittin’ powerful fixified since Bob Mason was er courtin’ ov 
her,” and Tom Moses said he had ‘^allus claimed she wus a 
right peart lookin’ gal, but so outdacious don’t kerry.” 
They indulged in much good natured railery at Bob’s 
expense, as they nailed the pine boards on the roof of the 
recently erected log barn. 

Bob Mason was considered quite a matrimonial catch in 
that neighborhood, and speculating mothersl^were surprised 
that he went out of his way to court ’Nervy Dixon, who 
never seemed to care to “keep company” with^young men,. 


PLA.YIN& ’possum. 


35 


when he received such open encouragement from the buxom 
settlement belles. 

Human nature is pretty much the same the world ovei 
and the maneuvering mothers of the city’s upper ten are 
prompted by the same motives that animate the mothers in 
the humbler walks of life. It is to further the interests of 
their offspring which is in itself a w’orthy motive, and it is 
only the means used in furtheranee of those ends that must 
be called into question. 

’Nervy had no match making mother to arrange her future 
for her, and it had shaped itself without any effort on her 
part. She was shrewd enough, however, to realize that Bob 
Mason could make life easier for her than her father had 
done. She regarded Bob with a placid affection. He had 
not disturbed the even tenor of her existence, but she 
anticipated with mild pleasure the change from the cabin 
in the clearing to the home of Bob Mason, which was nearer 
the centre of civilization — the settlement. 

The society of hardworking but motherly Mrs. Mason 
counted for a great deal in this matrimonial transaction 
with ’Nervy, who had been debarred fiom feminine society 
in her own home. Mrs. Mason reciprocated her regard and 
often remarked to her son, “’Nervy Dixon will do ter tie to, 
fur she ain’c got no notions like mos’ gals. She air sot in 
her ways and she’s not er flyin’ offen ther handle an’ actin’ 
contrairy like most of ’em, an’ she’s not one ter take on 
’cause a man’s settin’ up to her.” If Mrs. Mason had not 
been otherwise engaged on the day of the quilting and house 
covering she would have noticed that her future daughter- 
in law was not entirely deserving of these encomiums. If 
“flyin’ offen ther handle” meant a strange impatience when 
the subject of her marriage was introduced by any one of 
the quilting party, she was guilty of those objectionable 
flights in question, “ Seems like you all’s run out ov some- 
thin’ to talk about, yer keep harpin’ on gettin’ married so,” 
she exclaimed once sharply. And what was more natural 
than that the men at their work on the barn roof should 
have the event, in anticipation of what all these prepara- 


36 


PLAYING ’possum. 


tions were being made, uppermost in their minds, and what 
else might have been expected of the women folks who plied 
their needles for the same purpose? Were not these monu- 
ments of patchwork a part of Bob’s wedding outfit. His 
mother had pieced “ The Pride of the South ” with its intri- 
cacies of red, blue and gieen, its bars and stars in view of 
this happy da}^ Wss not the ^‘Lone Star,” which with its 
eight points, comp-ised of red and yellow calico diamond- 
shap'd scraps, also a part of that ‘‘outfit.” It looked 
ungrateful in ’Nervy to object to the pleasant surmises and 
pointed witticisms that accompanied the hard work that was 
disguised in the pleasing social afhiir called ‘‘ a quiltin’,” 
particularly when they were laboring in her interests. 

The house covering and quilting formed the iirelude to 
an evening of more exciting pleasures, the “ gatherin’,” to 
which all the neighborhood beaux and belles were invited. 
Only a chosen few, whose needlework was above reproach, 
took part in the actual quilting, but a number of girls busied 
themselves in the kitchen and served at table, making quite 
a large party. 

It was ill view of the “ gatherin’ ” that one of the older 
women suggested that it would be a good time to announce 
the approaching nuptials to assembled friends, adding it 
would save the trouble of sending around to each house to 
invite to the “ marryin’ an’ infair.” 

She further volunteered that down in the Biver Fork set- 
tlement it was the custom to make such announcements at 
a “ gatherin’ ” given for the purxiose called a “ ’nouncement 
party.” 

River Fork settlement was a more pretentious locality 
some eight miles distant, and the idea pleased Mrs. Mason 
and Bob of aping the fashions of that place, and the neigh- 
bor who had suggested told them the manner in which 
these announcement parties were conducted, enjoying the 
celebrity of being looked upon as a society leader. 

“Yer see,” she said, pausing to be sure the knot of her 
thread was pulled through the lining so as to be invisible, 
<‘Iwent down ther to old man Johnson’s gal’s weddin’ — 


PLAYING ’possum. 


3T 


went down ^bout ^er week ab re tlier inarryin’, and jest got 
ther ’in time fur tber ’nouncement party. Thar ain’t no^ 
cxtry trouble ter it — jest actin’ same as jinin’ tber cburcb. 
Tbe young couple stand in niiddle ov tbe floor, side an’ side,, 
and everybody comes up an’ shakes naiids with ’em, just 
fur the world like givin’ the right band of fellowship to a 
new member in tber cburcb.” 

’ISTervy beard them planning it all, but she was in tbo 
habit of letting Mrs. Mason arrange matters, and said 
nothing. It bad been her pbui that the marriage was to 
take place at Bob’s home insiead of ’Nervy’s, as tbe girl 
bad ‘‘no womenfolks to help her bx.” What difference 
did it make anyway, if she stood up with Bob Mason that 
night and received congratulatioiis ? If it pleased them all 
she determined to overcome her timidity and submit. She 
was conscious tbe new calico dress and blue ribbons would 
befit tbe occasion. She was to marry him in a lew days, 
and here her tbougbis came to a standstill on that subject. 
She forgot to keep on quilting as she wondered bow long 
John Morrison would be in tbe neigbborbood. Tbe white 
oaks were being thinned out in that location and be bad 
told Lode be would be moving further south soon. She bad 
only seen him once since that stormy night. She knew be 
remembered, for be bad held out bis band to her, saying: 
“I hope you have been quite well,” a commonplace greet- 
ing, but she understood it, altbwugb her father did not and 
remarked afterwards : 

‘‘Mister Morrison was powerful curious consarnin’ yer 
health, ’Nervy, considerin’ yer ain’t had a spell sence yer 
teethin’.” 

At tbe memory of that handclasp tbe girl’s face flushed, 
her eyes grew luminous, and Bob Mason, coming to the door 
ostensibly to “see if tbe quiltin’ was a keepin’ up with tbe 
bouse coverin’,” as be explained, but in reality to see if 
’Nervy would give him a smile of greeting, caught the soft 
glance and tbe blush that were not intended for him and 
was more than content. 

She did not attempt analyzing her thoughts for Morrison. 


PLAYING ’possum. 


Jf3 

They were not logicalj she possessed no art of reasoning, 
and the analysis would prove too comidex fur her simple 
iBind. 

There was a stirring of emotion that ^Kervy had never 
experienced before, but as yet there were no far reaching 
desires in her heart, no tragic awakening to a fruitless 
knowledge, no inspiring hope that seeks to walk among the 
stars with earth-ladened feet. 

Morrison had not been invited to participate in the exer- 
aises during the day, Bob Mason regarding him too 
highly, to ask that he should engage in covering the house, 
hot he had exacted a promise Irom him to. attend the 
^ gatherin’,’^ and Morrison, glad of any passing event to 
break the monotony of camp life, appeared up rn the festive 
scene at early candle light,” as Bob directed, and won 
Mrs. Mason’s heart by that wonderful adaptability to ]i5er- 
sons and places which he possessed. 

Tile front room had been cleared of its humble furnishings 
in anticipation of the quilting, and now that the quilts were 
finished and removed, there was a goodly space in which to 
©onduct the old-fashioned games. 

Benches had been improvised to range around the walls, 
and a chair was placed in front of the great fireplace for 
musician, different members of the company xiersonating 
that character during the evening, each one vieiug with the 
©tlier in scraping Bob’s old fiddle, 

Tom Moses wrested the laurels from his competitors, tor 
m his hands the violin seemed to be in an antiquated 
©cstacy, and one of the settlement belles glanced at him 
and exclaimed admiringly, ‘‘Tom can sho’ly handle the 
fiddle,” as she went through the mazes of “Twist and 
Turn.” Morrison had pleaded ignorance of this game and 
excused himself from joining it, but Bob, anxious to have 
lis honored guest enjoy the occasion, insisted upon his 
taking part. 

uYer get ’IN’ervy fur yer pardner, Mr. Morrison, she’ll 
show yer ther way,” and not wishing to thrust his betrothed 
mpon another man, he added, “ you know her better’n yer 


PLAYING ’possum. 


39 


know euiiy of t’otliers. She’s powerful good at ^ Twist ani. 
Turn.’ It ain’t no inore’n a Virginny reel. The old folks 
out’en hyar b’loiigs ter tlier church and don’t keer fur 
dancin’ in ther houses, so we young folks calls it ‘Twist and 
Turn ’ an’ no objectin’ then !” 

Bob laughed at the cuj)idity of youth and the stupidity of 
his elders, who were not so obtuse alter all, for Jerry Dixon 
might have been heard to remark during the course of the 
evening to Mrs. Mason : 

“ It ’pears ter me that the gals and boys is whipping the 
devil ’round the stump inlaying ‘Twists and Turns’ sot ter 
music, fur ef I ain’t mistook 1 played the same game myself 
when I wus young an’ called it dancin’ ther reel.” 

’I^ervy’s eyes darkened with pleasure when Morrison 
asked her to be his partner. A pleasure more intense than 
the occasion demanded, but she arose without a reply and 
took her place beside him. Bob, the gracious host, smiled 
his approval at the pair, and then the music started on its 
erratic course. 

Dp and down went the long line of young men and maid' 
eus. In and out, down the middle, and back again, to turu 
and twist, to circle and bow. Tom Moses became enthused 
and interpolated his classical improvvisato with exclama- 
tions, “Hi there!” encouraged by some of the masculine 
players who knocked a backstop and ejaculated, “Go it, 
Tom !” Tom did “go it.” The music was flying to his head 
along with Mrs. Mason’s blackberry wine, with which she 
had served her guests. Occasionally above the tweaking of 
the instrument his voice rose singing snatches of the popular 
selections he interpreted on the fiddle : 

“Sheep and ther goats am goin’ to ther paster, 

Shee]3 say goats git erlong a little faster.” 

The older men and women, seated on the benches around 
the room, found themselves keeping time with their feet te 
the inspiring strains. 

’Hervy’s face flushed with excitement, and Morrison 
thought that she had improved very much since he first 
saw her that morning when she stood waiting his approach 


40 


PLAYING ’possum. 


ill the clearing. Her pulses thrilled when his hand touched 
hers, and she, not undersianding that the awakening that 
comes sooner or later to all human hearts, had come to her, 
looked up questioning at him as if to ask the meaning of 
this strange delight, the tremulous joy, these unexpected, 
undefinable sensations that transported her beyond the 
commonjilace existence that had been hers. He was holding 
her slim brown hand in his and unconsciously pressed it as 
he glanced down at her smilingly, his dark eyes full of 
merriment. The novelty of being a participant in such a 
-scene amused him, but ’i^'ervy had no index to his thoughts, 
and this but seeined a reassuring answer to her silent 
questioning. 

“Ther ’possum up tli’ ’simmon tree ! 

Ther coon is on th’ ground ! 

Ther rabbit rakes th’ trash away ! 

Oh ! shake them ’simmons down !” 

sang Tom, coming to a sudden pause on a high note, for the 
game of Twists and Turns’^ was at an end. 

^i^'ervy caught her breath quickly— it came like a shock 
when Mrs. Mason whispered : 

It’s ’bout time fur the ’nouncement ter be made.” 

“ No, not fur a spell yet, Mrs. Mason, I’m plum beat out,’ 
’Nervy said hurriedly, and indeed her agitation and quick 
breathing caused Mrs. Mason to look at her and say : 

‘Twists and Turns,’ ez yer call it, is ’nough to take the 
starch out ov yer. Wa’al rest a spell afore the ’nouucement 
-comes off.” 

’Nervy left the gay assembly, going back towards the 
kitchen, now dark and deserted. She seated herself on the 
steps and looked out into the summer night, saying over 
-and over again : 

“ ’Tain’t no use, no use ; I don’t want ter marry Bob. 
■’Tain’t no use of ’nouncemeut ennyhow.” 

A dog raised up with a yawn near the kitchen and came 
near her. She saw it was one of Morrison’s black and white 
hounds. With that instinct of sympathy found in these 
brutes he drew near the girl, who sat with tearless eyes, 
every faculty strained to evolve some plan of escape, some 


PLAYING ’possum. 


41 


soluUon to the indecision that liad come to her. She realized 
how impossible it would be for her to go through the form- 
alities attendant upon an announcement of her marriage 
that night, with Morrison’s eyes upon her. She felt an 
unreasonable indignation against the neighbors who had 
striven to introduce the fashion of Kiver Fork settlement 
on this occasion. She was too honest to stand beside Bob,, 
with outward aspect of loyalty and affection, when a revuF 
sion of feelings was taking place. Suppose Morrison should 
congratulate her? It seemed to ’l!lervy that her heart 
would have cried out to him. Oh, no ! she felt tried beyond 
endurance now. 

Perhaps when John Morrison had returned to the world 
from whence he came her life would right itself again, and 
she would marry Bob, as had been her intention until 
to uiglit. Nothing Scciued taiigible in the present and the 
future repulsed her. She put her arms around the dog’s 
neck, who mutely expressed his canine pity by licking her- 
hands as she whispered, “’Tain’t no use, ’tain’t no use,^ 
tryin’,” and then poor ’Nervy wept, as wiser women have^ 
done in all ages, for Love’s sake. The hound whined and 
rubbed his head against her, telling her in a dumb way that; 
be sorrowed with her. His dog hev got more sense rhaus 
folks,’’ she sobbed. 

Bob Mason’s consternation was scarcely equal to that 
of his mother’s when the bride elect was discovered seated om 
the kitchen steps in the most abject despair. It was so> 
foreign to her natural imperturbed demeanor. 

“’Nervy Dixon, for the laud’s sake, what ails yer?”" 
exclaimed Mrs. Mason. 

“Hush, maj don’t make a fuss,” Bob said, with a man’s; 
dislike of a scene. 

“Nothin’ ain’t the matter,” answered ’Nervy, but Mrs. 
Mason was not satisfied with this ungracious reply. 

“ Has ennyone hurt yer feelin’s, child ?” she a.^ked. 

“No! I’iu jest worried out.” If the girl had lieen city 
bred she would have said she was nervous, as indeed she 
was. ' “I’m plum beat out with all ov this talkin’ of marryiiP 


12 


PLAYING ’possum. 


and tlie foolin’ ’bout ’nounceineiits. Don’t see no call fur 
all secb, noliow.” 

Mrs. Mason felt tlie girl’s Lands. They ^Yere very cold 
and her face was burning. The elder woman was perplexed 
but could arrive at but one conclusion, that’Xervy was sick. 

“ Yer ai’ jest broke down,” she said kindly, in spite of this 
disarrangement ot the evening’s programme, ‘^with ther 
cookin’ yesterday and ther quiltin’ to-day, a, n’ all ther flus- 
tration ter-night, it ain’t no wonder. Like ez not it’ll lay 
yer up fur a spell. Ennyhow ther ain’t hue a few as knows 
that we let on to have a weddin’ ’nouncement ’long with 
ther gatherin’, and I’ll let it be known ’mongst them yur 
wus sorter took ov a suddint.” 

’Kervy was indifferent to the explanation that good Mrs. 
Mason might make to her guests in regard to her non- 
appearance. 

Bob lingered near her in awkward solicitude. She said 
Irritably : 

“Whyn’t yer go in ther house and start sum game? 
’Tain’t no use stayin’ out hyar.” 

’Pears ter me ye’rd tell me what ails yer, ’Yervy,” he 
said, his simple mind puzzled by this complex turn of affairs. 
He decided, however, that there could be but one cause for 
her strange attitude, that was sudden sickness, caused by 
overwork or excitement. 

^‘Bob,” she said suddenh^, yer don’t want ter marry me, 
does yer? ’Taint no use, Bob, no use ov this marryin’. Pd 
rather stay at home with Pa an’ Lode, I can’t marry yer. 
Bob, 1 jest can’t. Yer ain’t keprin’ mueb, ar’ yer?” she 
exclaimed, incoherently. 

Her lover was not discomfited by this change of front, as 
might have been expected, and answered soothingly: 

Don’t take on so, Nervy, yer ar just plump done out 
with all ov this going’s on. Yer ain’t been used to no sech. 
Yer’ll all be right tomorrer.” 

After a few words of comfort^that had no power of com- 
tirting ’Nervy, he returned to the house as requested. 

The festivities were not interrupted, and the girl who had 


PLAYING ’possum. 


witlidrawii from them lieard the tread of feet and the music 
soared above the din of voices and laughter. The sound^£ 
jarred on her unstrung nerves. She had sought the dark- 
ness as a wounded or sick animal will creep away from it« 
kind. She wanted to be alone with the incomprehensibk 
emotions of her soul. 

Later, it was whispered about that was took of a 

suddint from gettin’ over her/’ and the company began te 
leave amid many regrets of Mrs. Mason that the ‘‘hiounce- 
ment” did not come olf as planned. The older womeu 
suggested many remedies for ^Nerv>’s benefit at parting 
with Mrs. Mason. 

John Morrison heard of this sudden illness with consider- 
able auxiety, for he had no doubt in his mind but that the 
exposure of that stormy night had something to do with it. 
He felt re.-ponsible in an indirect way. After bidding his 
host and hostess goodbye he went around to the shed behind 
the house to get his horse and he was surprised to see a 
figure clad in light raiment, sitting on the kitchen steps. 
By the dim starlight he recognized the girl with her arms 
around his dog. Her attitude, and that of her four-footed 
companion, was full of pathetic suggestions, and the friendly 
farewell on his lips was silenced, and he stood before her in 
that helplessness which strong men experience at sight of at 
woman’s sorrow. 

Commonplaces rushed in after a few moments to his aid. 
‘‘Is that Bocbuck with youF he asked. 

The girl lifted her head. He had been part of her 
thoughts, his presence fitted in wfith them, but a wave of 
embarrassment swept over her and she was silent. 

The dog did not leave her to go to his master, though her 
arms released him. 

“ Would you like to keep him, ’Xervy,” he asked, drawing 
nearer and lading his hand upon the dog’s head. “1 would 
like to give you something that I valued as a keepsake, 
befare leaving here, and I am going away day after to- 
morrow.” 

“ Ter morrer !’* she echoed. 


44 


PLAYING ’rOSSUJI. 


Yes, you must keep Eoebnck, be seeius fond of you, and 
Bob Mil enjoy bunting’ with bim. I hope you will be quite 
Wvdl in a day or two. Mrs. Mason said you were ill. I am 
-atraid I am tbe cause of it.” 

^JS’ervy started. Did be really suspect tbe truth ? Her 
fears were allayed as be continued, and it is tbe result of 
.your night’s work for me. I would be sorry, indeed, if you, 
were to sulfer for my sake. You must not forget me, but 
<lon’t remember me just because I bought the white oaks,” 
be added, laughingly remembering her explanation on the 
night of the storm. “ If I don’t vsee you again much joy 
to you,” and after patting Roebuck affectionately, saying 

goodbye, old fellow,” he turned away. 

’Yervy could not speak then, but as the dog crouched 
^iose beside her, and Morrison was riding down the road, 
she whispered : 

“ He sed Roebuck ez bow I must remember him, when 
I’ll be er tryin’ my whole lil'e ter forgit bim. He bated to 
leave you er sight wors’er ei. me, an’ yer ain’t nothin’ but 
er hound,, Roebuck, an’ yer love can’t size with that ov a 
liuman.” 

Rext day Mrs. Mason insisted that Bob .should take 
’Rervy home on horseback after the fashion of the country, 
she riding behind bim on tbe same horse. ’Rervy bad 
;argued]sbe felt as well as she ever did in her life and could 
walk home, but the shadows about her eyes and jire- 
•occupied listless manner were evidences to Mrs. Mason that 
’Rervy was ‘Miot at herself.” 

She said to her at parting, ‘‘I hope yer’ll pick up, ’Rervy, 
’gainst tbe preacher’s cornin’.” 

’Rervy did not smile at the allusion to her wedding day, 
and as she and Bob rode away she said : 

“Idunno ez I’ll need er minister. I’ve took out on er 
marryin’ so soon. Bob.” 

That individual only said affectionately: ‘‘Pshaw, 
’Rervy, yer got ther sulks, that’s all,” and they rode on in 
silence. 


PLAYING ’possum. 


45 


It never occurred to Bob that she was in earnest. There 
was no ostensible reason for this change, and he would have 
been troubled indeed had he known the complex sentiments 
that stirred within the breast of his lady love ; as it was he 
whistled softly one of the tunes Tom had played at the 
gatherin’ the night before, only checking himself with the 
exclamation : 

Thar’s Mister Morrison a coinin’ this er way, ’N’ervy.” 

The girl could not observe the road from her position 
behind Bob, but the prospect of this unexpected meeting 
flushed her cheeks, her eyes dilated with a sudden hope. 
Morrison reined his horse beside them, smiling brightly, 
unconscious of the pleading in the eyes of the girl. Had he 
noticed it he would only have been puzzled, and never 
dreamed of the truth. 

I am so glad to see you both and tell you goodbye once 
more! You look as if you had begun to travel together 
already. Much good luck to you both when the knot is tied. 
Goodbye 1” 

If the cool handclasp set ’Yervy’s pulses thrilling she 
made no sign. They moved off in opposite directions. 
^ Nervy turned her head and saw Morrison looking after 
them with a smile. He waved his hand to her in a joyous 
manner, still smiling. 

^^Bob,” she said suddenly, after they had gone on in 
silence for a few moments, wus er foolin’ yer’ when I 
wus makin’ b’lieve ez I didn’t want ter marry yer, next 
week.” 

Bob turned and looked at her kindly, and not under- 
standing that the smile on her pale lips was sadder than 
tearvS, said complacently : 

I knowed it, ’Nervy. I knowed it all along yer wus jest 
^r playin’ ’possum.” 


THE SHIFTLESS SIMPSONS. 


The sandy country road, yellow as amber, narrow and 
deeply rutted, like wrinkles on the face of nature, seemed to 
creep out from the very heart of the pine-clad hills. It had 
wound its way across phady glades, where the ferns and 
Indian pirks stood mirrored in tbe little streams that crossed 
it, it had stretched over the hills under sweet smelling pines, 
and was little worn by travel until surprised by civilization 
on the outskirts of Two Forks settlement. Then it broad- 
ened out, so that two vehicles could pass abreast, and began 
to assume the air of a highway, that led past prosperous farms 
up to the little country store, and the church that stood on 
the hill at the other end of the village. An ox wagon came 
in sight where the road crept from the woods, a cumbersome 
vehicle, ladened with humble household effects, on which a 
woman was seated, whose wrinkled brown face reminded 
one of a corrugated trunk of a stunted tree, that has struggled 
for existence in the dense shadow of the woods, with the 
sunshine shining above, beyond, but never touched it. It 
was not age that had seared her face, so much as sorrow 
and suffering. Beside her sat a tall youth, evidently her 
son, judging by a shadowy likeness about the eyes, if there 
can be any real resemblance between dark eyes, young, eager 
and bright, and sombre eyes that tears and pain and years 
hav^e dimmed. 

The teamster walked beside his oxen, with long, irregular 
steps. The sight of civilization seemed to give new impetus 
to his team likewise to himself. 

“ Hi, there, Buck ! Gee, Lead he called as he prodded 
them encouragingly with the handle of his cowhide whip 
ard gave an emphatic jerk to the one suspender worn across 


THE SHIFTLESS SIMPSONS. 


47 


liis Lomespun shirt, to which his trousers hung in a one 
sided, despairing manner. 

The road was now flanked on both sides by serpentine rail 
fences, over which muscadines, blackberry and rattan vines 
struggled for mastery. The corn fields that late had waved 
and rustled their golden green pennons, looked bare, for 
‘^fodder pulling’^ season had come and gone and the corn- 
stalks stood like skeletons in rank and file along the turn- 
rows, their brown tassels waving as mournfully in the 
October breeze as plume over cask of vanquished warrior. 

The smoke rose from the chimneys of the dozen of farm 
houses hidden here and there, amid the hills and hollows, 
and then drifted out to the edge of the woods that surround 
the settlement, and spread like white tissue against the 
pines. The atmosphere was hazy and redolent with the 
perfume of pines, and the odor that arises from the hedge- 
rows and waving: field grasses. The last rays of the sun 
were being filtered through the silver haze, when the wagon 
drove up to a poor log cabin that stood under the shadow of 
the hill on the outskirts of the settlement, removed some 
little distance from the road. The habitation bore the marks 
of time and weather. The weeds grew up to the very door, 
and had even gained a foothold on the mud chimney that 
leaned dejectedly against the house. The teamster looked at 
the battered hingeless door, and then at his fellow travelers 
inquiringly. The lad in the w^gon swung himself lightly 
down, and one had a chance to note his well knit figure, 
that even the coarsest apparel could not disguise. He 
smiled up at the woman, with a tender look in his eyes, 
and said : “ ’Tain’t much of a place, but sech as it is, it’s 

home.’^ 

It was the supper hour at Miss Ann Spentworth’s domi- 
cile, or the arrival of the strangers would have created quite 
a stir in that household, for the Spentworth farm house was 
just across the field- from the cabin, and commanded a view 
of it, but as it was. Miss Ann was unaware of the presence 
of her new neighbors until the next day, and this was the 
first grievance laid up ag dost the new comers It was a 


48 


THE SHIFTLESS SIMPSONS. 


rare event, and one of general interest, when anyone moved 
into Two Forks settlement, and the men folks considered it 
a special privilege to gather at the store to discuss the 
arrivals. How many wagon loads of household effects, how 
many dogs, horses, cows, etc., while the women exchanged 
greetings and added: ‘^Seen any ov the strangers yitf^ 
and any bit of information in regard to parties in question 
was welcome indeed, and to be debarred this pleasure of 
mild speculation, this bit of gossip was a hardship Miss Ann 
resented. She felt herself cheated of her rights, when next 
morning she discovered the cabin inhabited. She could 
scarce believe her eyes, yet the smoke curled from the 
chimney and she could see some one moving about in front 
of the house. Miss Ann scorned the mysterious, I and all 
that was not clear to her prejudiced mind was condemned 
as being ^‘powerdil curious.’^ Her rounds of labor were 
interrupted by moments of reverie that day, and her gaze 
went across her garden patch of purple turnips and winter 
cabbages, and beyond the bit of landscape, mellowed and 
tinted by the first frost, to the cabin under the hill. 

The teamster, his wagon and oxen had departed at the^ 
break of day and the villagers knew nothing of his coming^ 
and going, so it seemed as if the strangers had dropped from 
the skies, or came stealthily at night. Several days passed 
and no one came to the cabin and no one came from it, for 
Lige Simpson was fully occupied in cutting the weeds about 
his door, nailing up wind wrenched puncheons and cutting 
wood for present or future use. 

It was an old established custom i:i the settlement that 
new comers should make the first overtures to the old resi- 
dents. These overtures consist of the masculine members 
joining the Saturday evening conclave under the shed of 
the one store in Two Forks, and the women appearing at 
prayer meeting on Wednesday night and preachin’ on 
Sunday, and giving a friendly howdy !”. to all the females 
present. This was very little to expect, and new comers 
had never proven refractory until Lige Simpson had come 
among them, and somehow, he had not fallen into these 


THE SHIFTLESS SIMPSONS. 




prescribed lines, and in consequence was viewed with sus- 
picion. 

He had not been in the neighborhood a week before Miss 
Ann gave vent to her grievances in unmeasured terms, as 
she violently shook the door mat, made of corn shuck, in 
her rounds of matudinal labor. 

There goes that everlastin’ fiddle again. It kep me 
wake for the fore part of the night with its twanging, and 
here afore I get the mornin’ cleanin’ done, it’s started up 
agin. Ever since they have been livin’ over there, I ain’t 
hearn nothin’ else much, and it’s as much as I can do ov a 
night to read my chapter with that fiddle seesawin’ and 
distractin’ me. I don’t say it’s ongodly to play the fiddle, 
and the bearin’ ov it ain’t sinful, but I do say that poor 
folks ain’t got no cause to spend half er ther time in such 
foolishness.” 

But the music rose and fell in waves of sound across the 

V' 1 ^ wr-J l-V* fVi o 

1/4-10 1/UJL 14XJ^ Ct 4JI 1.4. O i. Oil 1 V4 O V4 V»X04-1 UXliO 

perings of the pines in the purple distance. There was 
nothing in nl«vin^ to give offence : true, he was self- 

taught, or at least, the birds, the streams, the thousand 
woodland voices, had been his teacher. The old battered 
violin seemed to become inspired beneath his touch, and 
the happiest moments of his cramped, poverty stricken life 
were when he waked low tremulous notes, like the wood- 
thrush, the joyous call of the red bird, the deep-throated 
twitter of the wren. There were no bird notes he could not 
imitate on his violin j the cooing of the dove ; the exultant 
salutation of the lark ; the energetic call of the partridge 
were woven into a symphony, such as was never written — 
but none the less sweet. Lige had a method all his own, and 
the melody was caught from the wind voices, and the 
cadence from running streams. 

Miss Ann Spentworth was not alone in her opinion of the 
newcomer’s shiftlessness, which she had often discussed 
with her brother, Ben Spentworth, over whose household 
she presided. He, in his good-natured, easy way, shook his 
head said . ‘‘ When you see a likely boy like Lige Simpson 


50 


THE SHIFTLESS SIMPSONS. 


spendin’ more’n half his time fiddlin’, it showed he warn’t 
^oiu’ to work if he could help himself.” Farmer Ben was 
the sole acquaintance Lige had in the neighborhood, and 
that had been brought about by asking him if he could get 
work on his farm. 

^‘It had come about in this way,” said Ben, as he and his 
farm ‘‘hands” went up and down the cotton rows, their 
<fingers automatically picking the fleecy locks of cotton from 
the bolls and dropping them with swift motion into a sack 
that hung strapped across the broad shoulder of each. “It 
•did beat anything I ever heard tell on, how that boy wanted to 
work ; he came over to that fence one evenin’ where I was 
<juttin’ sorghum to throw over to the stock.” Father Spent- 
worth was given to circumlocution, as are most people who 
live in the country where events are rare, and gossip scarce. 
It is a provincial art of making the most of any information 
for conversational purposes. “ He came up there and said, 
in a sort of sheepish way, as if he was ashamed of himself 
for askin’ for a half a day’s work. Yes, sir, for work by 
the half day, sayin’ as how he wanted to ^mrk every after- 
noon, but not in the mornin’. As if he warn’t able to do a 
whole day’s work, that big, able-bodied lad. I blame his 
«na for not makin’ him work ! He is not an unlikely look- 
ing boy, either. He can’t drop thet old fiddle longer than 
that. Half a day’s work ! I wonder what he thinks his 
labor’s worth. ‘‘ I guess he’s skeered of getting tired,” said 
farmer Ben, and a laugh followed, 

Lige went from farm to farm seeking work, and began to 
^ush painfully whenever his proposition to work only half 
the day was questioned and ridiculed. Sometimes he slunk 
^way without a remonstrance at the refusal, other times he 
«aid doggedly : “I can work after dinner, but I have work 
to do at home in the morning,” and those who heard this, 
laughed when the notes of the violin floated across the field 
to them in the early hours, and they said ! “Lige is doin’ 
ftiis mornin’ work now.” 

When Lige did get work in the afternnon he worked with 
^will and his employers could not fail to notice how consci- 


THE SHIFTLESS SIMPSONS. 


515 


eutious of every detail and how steadily lie worked uotil 
the snu went down over the hills in the west, then he went 
cheerily homeward, whistling on his way. 

After a time the verdict was that ‘ • the Simpson boy was^ 
a worker when he worked; but he couldn’t be hired for 
more’n half a day.” Most of the farmers in T«^o Forks 
settlement needed little help, doing harvesting themselves^ 
so Lige was not growing rich from the earnings of his after- 
noon labors, and he could barely keep a bag filled at home^ 
He hoped to tide over the winter, however, and was full of 
hope in the spring garden and potato patch he had planned- 
Though Lige was considered shiftless he was not the bearer 
of the entire blame, for the women exchanged opinions of 
Mrs, Simpson at the church door on meeting days and said :: 
‘‘She was a powerful curious person to keep herself shot np^ 
as if she was feared some of them would see her,” and Mrs- 
Johnson, the storekeeper’s wife went on to say, “that it: 
did look ez if she were ashamed to come out and show her 
face to honest folks at meetin’, and if she expected that the 
ladies of Two Forks was a goin’ to hunt her up and pot 
themselves out to get acquainted with her, she was mightily 
mistook, and as she had been here two months without so 
much as cornin’ to the store or to church, she was welcome 
to stay at home.” 

Miss Ann Spentworth, who was supposed to know more 
about the Simpsons than anyone else, being their nearest 
neighbor, volunteered the information in confidential tones^ 
“that to her mind Mrs. Simpson was as no account a& 
her boy Lige. I haven’t seen her, but she was a sittin’" 
on the i^orch, and ’peared to be holdin’ her hands and 
doin’ nothin’ else earthly. I thought as how she might 
be knittin’ some socks for Li^e, for he looks like he^ 
might need them before the winter is over. She ain^t 
never been near me and I ain’t never went near her^ 
because I haven’t got no patience with them as sets dowa. 
and waits for the Lord to provide for them as He did 
for the children ol Israel. He ain’t going to send dowi^ 
no bread to a woman, as has got a big grown boy, and don^fc 


52 


THE SHIFTLESS SIMPSONS. 


make him work more’n half a day, and she don’t ’pear to 
bestir herself about her housework, and I have the first time 
to see her do anything but set and hold her hands.” 

Miss Spentworth had far-seeing optics, and though the 
house of her neighbor in question was some little distance 
from her own, and she had never crossed its’ threshold, she 
knew of Mrs. Simpson’s movements, her active mind sup- 
plying what her eyes failed to see. 

It will be seen that the Simpson’s were under the social 
ban in this little settlement, not because they were miserably 
poor, because poverty was no “bar sinister” to social 
recognition in this neighborhood, but because they were 
exclusive and did not join in the coming and going of the 
people. The prattle and tattle of gossipers went on, the 
tongues of all the women in the settlement wove in and out 
like the shuttles in the loom, and they were weaving a whole 
cloth of prejudice against the new-comers, who were stigma- 
tized as “them shiftless Simpsons,” and no one came near 
them in those days when the year changed her gay autumnal 
raiment for the frost rimmed gray and brown vestments of 
winter. The life blood of the year had been spilled over 
the sumac along the roads, in the fence corners, but its 
flaming red had dulled to brown splashes, and the fields 
were russet and bare, unsightly cotton stalks, guilless of 
leaf or boll, kept watch over the lonely turn rows. 

There was an air of festivity about Two Forks settlement 
as the year waned, the one store displayed, in its small 
front window, rows of cheap toys, tempting heaps of apples 
and several glass jars <jf pink and yellow confections. 

Farmer Spentworth had returned from his annual trip to 

M , twenty miles distant, the nearest market for his 

cotton, and with wagon ladeued with provisions. Christmas 
stores, and one passenger sitting on the spring seat beside 

him. She proved to be his pretty niece from M , whom 

he had brought back to spend the Christmas holidays. A 
winsome visitor to the old farm house, was Nell Spentworth, 
and her aunt. Miss Ann, greeted her with unusual warmth, 
and genuine pleasure beamed from her cold blue eyes. 


THE SHIFTLESS SIMPSONS. 


53 


“ Howdy, Hell ! I was fearful you would not come with 
Ben, though I told him that he mustn’t come back without 
You. How’s your pa and ma and all the children ! Come 
right in to the fire, it grows somewhat chilly to’ards night. 
As soon as Ben puts up the team we will have supper,” and 
Miss Ann bustled around on hospitable thoughts intent. 
The girl looked about the spare room” with keen enjoy- 
ment of her surroundings, the spotless pine floor, with 
plaited rag rugs laid stiffly in front of the hearth, the home- 
made tufted spread as white as driven snow, the white 
muslin frilled curtains as stiff as starch and a hot iron could 
make them, the four post bedstead, that she knew held 
billows of feathers, into which she would sink into luxurious 
sleep. It was all so clean, sweet smelling and cheerful in 
the bright glow of the wood fire upon the hearth. 

She had always enjoyed her visits to the boyhood home of 
her father. Uncle Ben and Aunt Arm had kept the old 
place, while their younger brother had drifted into town, 
married and gone into business there, not over prosperous, 
but making a living for a large family. 

That night as they were sitting around the fire, in the big 
hall, that served as sitting room and passage way, the big 
logs roaring and sparkling, both Uncle Ben and Aunt Ann 
found youthful companionship pleasant. It was an agree- 
able change from their usual routine. The brother and 
sister had been growing old on opposite sides ol that broad 
hearth. Heither had married. Miss Ann had never had 
time to fall in love, and arrange the other preliminaries of a 
wedding, and Ben had felt no need of a hearth tender,” 
as the Germans beautifully express it, for his sister Ann 
kept his house scrupulously neat and had attended to all of 
his temporal affairs very successfully for him. Though he 
may have in his younger days felt an agreeable thrill at a 
glance from some village maiden’s eye, he had never sum- 
moned up the courage to ask any woman to come and live 
in the house with Miss Ann, nor had he ever dared to ask 
Miss Ann to lay down the sceptre, or hand it over to another 
woman. Perhaps sometimes as he dozed by the fireside, 


54 


THE SHIFTLESS SIMPSONS. 


opposite Miss Add, the click of her knitting needles being 
the only soand to bredk in upon his reverie, the fire spirits 
drew fantastic pictures for him. Perhaps some other eyes 
than Miss Ann’s looked at him, and her time worn hands, 
in the deceptive firelight grew young and soft, and her eyea 
were brown instead of blue, and her hair, streaked with 
silver, was rich nutty brown. Perhaps the fandful fire elfs, 
filled in the wide space across the hearth between Miss Ann 
and himself, with small forms — bright-faced bors and girls — 
and Farmer Spent worth would start up, wide awake and 
wonder where they had all gone, as he looked across at Misa 
Ann, her needles fiashing like long keen rays of light amid 
the blue yarn. 

But the night Xell came her needles were not so active^ 
they were sometimes quite still, as the girl laughed and 
talked to her of the town, of her school life, the children at 
home, her mother, and everything that came to her mind^ 
with all the abandonment of youth. Suddenly Nell stopped 
and listened. ‘’What is that! It’s music! Listen, how^ 
sweet.” Miss Ann’s face assumed its hard lines again, and 
she began knitting sternly, as if to task herself for mo 
mentary indulgence. 

“It’s them shiftless Simpsons,” she said, then in answer 
to the look of inquiry, ‘‘ our new neighbors, that is all I 
can say, tor we don’t know nothing’ about them ’ceptin’ the 
boy fiddles day and night. You’ll be powerful sick of it 
afore your visit is out.” 

“Oh, not I, for I love music— but how well he plays,, 
listen.” She turned her head attentively, the firelight 
touched the brown hair tendrils on her neck with momentary 
gold, the soft eyes grew luminous. 

“ Are they living in that old cabin, Aunt Ann, over in 
the woods?” she asked. 

“Yes, mighty poor, and no manner account as I can see,” 
her aunt answered. Ben remonstrated, “I don’t know 
about that boy being so trifling, as you all say. He ain’t 
had no showin’, he is toler’ble peart, Pll be bound, if it 


THE SHIFTLESS SIMPSONS. 


55 


wasn’t} for liis curious ways of not working but half a day 
at a time.” 

Nell did not trouble her pretty head about the discussion 
that followed, of the mundane affairs of the Simpsons, but 
fell asleep that night with the melody from Lige’s old violin 
in her ear, too tired even to dream. 

The Spentworth’s hirm house was of that style of archi- 
tecture known as the “ double log pen” house, familiar to 
all who have traveled through the pine hills of North Lou- 
isiana. A wide hall through ihe centre, on which all the 
rooms in the house open. The Spentworth’s had made 
several improvements on the original structure, and the hall 
had been closed, ani a great fire place built at one end. It 
was a desirable place for swinging quilt frames, and for a 
quilting bee, which was a popular mode of entertainment 
with Miss Ann. The chinks in the walls, between the logs, 
were receptacles for herbs in the process of drying, and long 
strings of red pepper swung like rosy chandeliers from over- 
head. This was a royal place for a social affair and Christ- 
mas Eve the young folks of the settlement came by ijivita- 
tion to ‘‘a gatherin’ ” given in honor of Nell Spentworth. 
Before sundown the young guests began to arrive. Kosy- 
cheeked girls in red plaid ‘‘worsted” dresses, bashful swains, 
who could not be induced to cross the threshold until the 
games began, then edged in and joined the swaying throng 
unquestioned. 

The village gallants on prancing ponies came displaying 
their equestrian skill at the front gate, before dismounting. 
Village belles, with plaited hair tied with pink ribbons 
matching their cheeks, and string of white beads matching 
their white throats, arrived before sundown. 

All the young folks in the settlement were present, even 
Lige Simpson, for Ben Spentworth had asked him to come 
and bring his fiddle, at Nell’s request, however obnoxious 
it might be to Miss Ann. 

He came late and took a seat near the door. It was dur- 
ing a game of “Going to Jerusalem,” and the attention of 


56 


THE SHIFTLESS SIMPSONS. 


all was centered on the players, so his entrance was unno- 
ticed. 

Coming in from the darkness outside the brightness almost 
dazzled him. Nell had decorated the hall with holly and 
red haws. Uncle Ben leading his assistance with the enthu- 
siasm of a joy. It had been a long time since the farm 
house had been filled with so much youth and joyousness. 
Lige had never been to a “gatherin’’’ before, and as ho 
watched Nell in her soft white wool dress, her curls fl iating- 
around her flushed face, her eyes dancing with merriment, 
she seemed the embodiment of all that was beautiful. The 
game continued with unabated fervor, and the great rafters 
echoed with laughter and sound of romping footsteps. Lige 
forgot to be uncomfortable in his thr<‘adbare clothes, and 
found himself laughing in sympathy with the joy of others. 

He had his violin with him, and as if impelled to give 
expression to his interest and pleasure in the occasion, he 
drew the bow across the strings, and was keeping time to 
the feet upon the floor. He grew bolder as the rymthie 
accompaniment seemed to be appreciated and even Miss 
Ann found herself nodding tv> the music as she put the last 
touches to the long table in the kitchen. When the game 
ended, Lige was conscious that Nell was coming toward 
him, he knew that she was saying some pretty words of 
thanks and praise to him, but he could not look at her. 
The overpowering sense of his inferiority, his poor attire, 
made him keep his eyes awkwardly fixed on the toes of his 
coarse shoes. And when she had passed on, speaking reas- 
suring words to the group of bashful boys in the corner,^ 
over whom a deep silence fell at her approach, he blamed 
himself for not looking at her and speaking to her. What a 
great country lout she must think him, and this thought 
somehow sent the blood rushing to his face, but he forgot 
this shadow across his evening as^ they played “Stealing 
Partners” and “Twistificatiou” which was for all the world 
like a Virginia reel, to the sound of his instrument. Lige did 
not expect to take part in the games, it was happiness and 
honor enough to sit and play the violin, and watch the 


THE SHIFTLESS SIMPSONS. 


57 


young hostess, as she floated up and down the room with 
some country swain, who was lucky indeed to ^ ‘steal’’ so 
fair a partner. 

It was growing late when it was decided to play “Twistifi- 
<jatious,” the girls choosing their partners by way of variety. 
Lige never knew how it happened, it was without any volition 
on his part, but he was going up the hall with !N'ell. In 
sweet pity for him and in gratitude for the music he had 
untiringly furnished all evening, she had asked him to be 
her partner. A titter was heard among the girls, and a 
sneering whisper about that “Simpson boy.” Significant 
.glances and covert nudges were exchanged among the Two 
Forks beaux, as Lige, tall, ill dressed, but comely, joined 
the play as Kell’s partner. He was intensely nervous, his 
hands were so cold as to fill the giil wich a strange pity, and 
she pretended not to see his awkward mistakes and hur- 
ried answers to her. But Lige’s embarrassment passed ofif 
as the game progressed, and as he “swung his partners” and 
“balanced again,” the shackles seemed to drop from his feet 
and tongue, and Kell was surprised to find him one of the 
most agreeable partners of the evening. To Lige that game 
was a rose-colored memory for years. At its conclusion he 
returned to his seat near the door and took his violin again, 
and no one else asked him to join the games, but he did not 
notice the omission. When Miss Ann called them in to 
supper, Lige slipped out and went home, and Kell, looking 
up and down the long table, saw he was not there. 

* * * * * * ^ * Jic ^ 

“Peace and Goodwill was the burden of the congregation’s 
song. “Peace and Goodwill” was the text of the minister’s 
sermon, and these attributes beamed in every eye in the 
little church of the settlement on Christmas day. It is easy 
enough to feel “Peace and Goodwill,” when there are no 
disturbing elements in your soul, and a large, fat turkey 
done to a lurn, rich, brown and juicy, and other Christmas 
cheer are awaiting you at home, but what of them who have 
neither the goodwill of their neighbors, nnr good cheer 
for themselves at Christmas tide? What of them ? Christ- 


58 


THE SHIFTLESS SIMPSONS. 


mas was not full of joyful significance to Lige Simpson, in 
fact, the reaction had set in after the past night’s festivities, 
and he was experiencing a dissatisfaction new^ to him. He 
was leaning moodily on the fence that skirted his domain, 
gazing toward his home, where he knew no good cheer would 
find its way to his mother and himself, when he heard a 
light footfall and a “Merry Christmas !” greeting. He knew it 
was Nell Spentworth, and he felt his old embarrassment in 
meeting her gaze. She was on her way from “preachin’ ” this 
Christmas morn, and the crisp, cold air had painted her 
cheeks with all the carmine in Nature’s paint box. He 
removed his old hat, with that mute courtesy and respect he 
felt due to her, as being the brightest, most beautiful vision 
that had ever illumined his life. “Merry Christmas ; how 
is your mother f” Nell asked of that much abused woman, 
with a desire to say something pleasant and to express the 
peace and goodwill in her sunshiny heart to-day for all the 
world. 

‘‘She’s only tolerable,’’ returned Lige ; then as if suddenly 
inspired by the kind young face before him, he aided ; 
“Would you mind coming to see her now f ’ Nell hesitated, 
as the thought of her aunt’s opinion of the “shiftless Simp- 
sons” crossed her mind, and as she hesitated, Lige said : 
“I oughtn’t have asked you, it’s such a poor place audit 
ain’t fit for such as you, and I thought maybe you wouldn’t 
mind. Nobody has ever come to see Mammy since she’s 
been here.” 

“ I will go now with pleasure,” said Nell, thinking how 
sad to be poor and neglected on Christmas day. Her aunt 
would not scold her perhaps, and after all, who knew 
whether Mrs. Simpson was the idle character the people 
thought her. “ I told her about you last night,” said Lige, 
as they neared the house, “she will be glad you came to 
see her, though she wouldn’t expect it of you.” 

Nell never forgot the look of gratitude in the poor tired 
eyes as she said : “I came to wish you a merry Christmas, 
Mrs. Simpson.” 

The form did not stir in the chair by the fire, one weak shriv- 


THE SHIFTLESS SIMPSONS. 


59 


«led hand reached towards her in greeting. Nell noticed it 
was her left hand. Lige placed an old stool for her to be 
seated on and left the room, and Mrs. Simpson said ; 
“Bless you for cornin’ to see a poor afflicted soul, I can’t 
get up to make you welcome to this poor house, but I am 
glad to see you.” 

Nell noticed with a pity that made her eyes dim and her 
'Chin quiver, that the woman before her was paralyzed in 
her right arm and both of her limbs. 

“Have you been sick long, Mrs. Simpson f’ she asked. 

“For ten years I hev been ez you see me. I haven’t 
walked a step in all that time, an’ have only mj^ left baud, 
m is any use to me. an’ ’taint much I can do with it. I 
keeps Lige company. He hasn’t no one else and he never 
makes me feel that I’m a bit of trouble to him. You don’t 
know Miss, what Lige has been to me, his poor old, no 
account mammy, an’ he has the first time to complain yet 
at the load laid on him. I used to pray at first that T might 
die and be out of trouble, but the Lord didn’t see fit to take 
me, and Lige has worked and done for me as never did any 
son for his mamiay.” Her voice grew tremulous with her 
excessive mother love, made sweeter, tenderer by her utter 
dependence on him. “You don’t know all he does for me. 
He not only cooks for me but washes and irons his and my 
clothes. They are not much, but he does it and more. He 
never leaves me in the mornin’, not until everything is done 
— what there is to do here. He works in the afternoon, but it 
ain’t much he finds to do, but he never leaves me until I 
feel able to be took up and out ov bed and put in my chair 
here by the fire.” 

“Have you had no one else all these years f’ Nell asked 
sorrowfully. 

“No, Miss, not a one, but I hasn’t needed no one but 
Lige, since he was big enough to wait on me.” 

“He plays the violin very well, said Nell. “Do you like 
music f’ 

Mrs. Simpson was pleased at the compliment to Lige and 
replied : “Yes, it’s the only thing that ’pears to ease my 


60 


THE SHIFTLESS SIMPSONS. 


pain ov a night, and Lige plays me to sleep ev’ry night, no 
difference how tired he is, and heap of times when Fm 
nervous like in the luornin’, he will fiddle for me by the 
hour. One day Lige said as how some one called him ‘fid- 
dlin’ Simpson’ ’cause they heard him a playin’ so much.” 

Nell remembered the aspersions cast on these strangers 
and her tender heart cried out: “Ob, if they only knew, 
if they only knew ” She thought of this poor half-living 
woman, and the self denying son, their abject poverty, the 
scantily furnished room, and contrasted them with thrifty 
ones in comfortable homes, with warm raiment and whole- 
some food. Who w ere they to pass such cruel judgment on 
these two lives? 

Lige came in and stood behind his mother’s chair. He 
was not awkward here as at the “gatherin’” but looked 
strong and reliant. Nell marveled at the change. 

“ Mammy,” he said bending down to look at the furrowed 
face with softened eyes and voice, “you are feeling better for 
Miss Spentworth’s visit, ain’t you ? She made her wish come 
true about; a merry Christmas, didn’t she? It ain’t the 
good cheer people has in their homes on. Christmas, so much 
as that they carry about on their faces as makes other folks 
happy. Is it mammy?” 

“Does any one ever come to see you, Mrs. Simpson ?” she 
asked. 

“Not a soul, my child, has put a foot in my door till you 
came to day. Lige said from the first they were curious 
acting people, and he was just so proud he [couldn’t bear to 
tell them about me, ‘for Mammy,’ says he, ‘we are too poor 
to have friends.’ ” 

“Aunt Ann,” said Nell, half an hour later, as she walked 
into the hall where the holly still gleamed on the walls, and 
the mistletoe hung over the mantle, “I have a sad, sad story 
to tell you and Uncle Ben,” and with tears in her sympa- 
thetic eyes she told them the sad history of the “Shiftless 
Simpsons.” 

She knew beneath her aunt’s stern demeanor beat a heart 
ready to respond to a tale of distress, and now the sense of 


THE SHIFTLESS SIMPSONS. 


61 


having entertained unjust, uncharitable thoughts against 
her neighbors filled her with a spirit of atonement. 

And not many minutes elapsed before Ben Spentwortb 
was assisting Lige to carry his mother in her chair across 
the field to the farm house, where the largest rag rug had 
been sjiread in the warmest corner by the fire for her recep- 
tion. Miss Ann had, with much solicitude, sent warm muf- 
flers and shawls to make her coming guest comfortable. Lige? 
had his violin swung over his shoulder, and indeed NelFs- 
^ ‘Merry Christmas’^ was in a fair way to come true. 


UNCLE DAN’S DIVINING ROD, 

OHAPTEB I. 

The origin of the settlement could not have been more 
5 )rosaic than the village itself, the only wonder is that the 
dfirst settler could have made up his mind to locate upon the 
red hills that are cut to the very heart by the ravines and 
:scarred by deeply rutted roads. One fancies that when fche 
xfe«t ^pilgrim journeyed down the winding sandy highway 
that skirts the lower side of Backbone settlement, that he 
crested under a great pine tree that towers far above its com- 
•<;omrades and throws a quivering shadow across the thor- 
oughfare, and the heavy fragrance-ladened air, like the 
'Lotos of the Nile, acted like an opiate and wooed him to 
^forgetfulness, so that he planted his staff, unbuckled his 
sandals and forgot that the yellow road led out somewhere 
f>to civilization beyond the pine girted hills. Other way- 
farers passed this way and looked about, for some obvious 
'reason, for the first comer’s presence, and located beside 
«liim, and probably waited all their lives for some advantage 
4x) accrue from their decision. 

This could be the only explanation of the existence of that 
particular settlement, with the dozen or two farm houses, 
with small farms attached, huddled together on the ridges, 
or following the road down hill in direction of the church. 

The ridge extending through the country from east to 
west, had been known always as the Devil’s Backbone, and 
fhe settlement had derived its name, somewhat modified, 
from its proximity to the Satanic spinal column. Where 
road cut through this ridge, worn deep into sort of a 
®ainiature canyon, the sunshine never reached, the narrow 
•way was enclosed on each side with red clay walls and the 
ttrees on top of the ridge lapped over and formed a dense 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 


65 


canopy. ’Twa=< a dark place and one the children in the 
vicinity feared to pass through after sundown. There had 
been a number of old legends, some remembered and some 
forgotten, about the Devil’s Backbone, but none were fresher 
in the minds of the community than a fact of such recent 
date as to yet cause comment. On top of the ridge a cavity 
shaped like a grave, three feet wide, six feet long and as^ 
many deep, was found freshly dug one morning. No one 
for a moment supposed it was the work of human hands — 
that idea seemed preposterous. It was whispered that the 
Devil had dug the grave and was lying in wait for his^ 
victim, but as the weeks passed and nothing of the super- 
natural happened, the settlement recovered its mental 
equilibrium. 

The church was at the bottom of this ridge, and seemed to 
have hidden from human eyes in a leafy retreat, shut off 
from the view of the unpainted form houses that straggled 
along in such unlovely fashion. A narrow, grassy road led 
to it, sweet with scent of locust blossoms from a thorny 
undergrowth that hedged the way, looking like a while 
embroidered flounce upon the dark green mantle of pines- 
that clothed the hills. 

A spring, with its crystal waters welling up through a 
hollow log, trickling over its edges in fountain effect, and 
then streaming off to fill the baptismal pool a few yards 
farther on, was the primary reason for building the church 
where it was. It was not because that particular spot in 
the woods suggested the quiet and coolness one finds in 
large churches — that odor of damp moss that attaches to 
them all ; nor was it because the great pine trees resembled 
cathedral columns, spans and spires ; nor was it because the 
breeze sang low psalms through the branches, and the wind 
ofttimes lifted the low toned cadence into a mighty hosanna^ 
up there, overhead, in the green arches, above the little brown 
church. None of these things had aught to do with the 
selection of a site for the church. The practical value of 
having a good, free flowing spring near the place, to quench 
the thirst of saints and sinners who attended the Backbone 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 


settlement church, outweighed other advantages that the 
region might offer. The Sunday that Parson Heedley so 
unexpectedly preached at the Backbone settlement he had a 
vague idea that his text was not exactly suited to his con- 
gregation ; but this church w^as not in his circuit and it was 
only an accident he w^as preaching there at all. A storm 
had overtaken him the evening before as he was passing and 
forced him to remain over night, and the next morning 
found the creeks swollen and bridges washed away, and he 
had been unable to keep his appointment at Okla, whither 
he was bound. Believing in laboring in the Lord’s vineyard 
wherever he chanced to be, he had decided to hold service 
in the Backbone church that Sabbath, much to the grati- 
fication of the community, who only enjoyed preachin’ ” 
once a month, when Brother Brown reached this point on 
his circuit. 

The pleasure was augmented by the fact that Parson 
Heedley belonged to another circuit more prosperous than 
the one including the Backbone settlement, and was ranked 
as a “powerful good preacher an’ hard to head when it cum 
to handlin’ ther gospel.” 

It was Uncle Dan Bilberry’s proud privilege, whose guest 
the storm belated minister had been over night, to notify 
the neighbors that theie would be preachin’ at the church 
that Sabbath morning. 

Uncle Dan, as he was called by everyone in that section, 
was the patriarch of the settlement and was one of those 
lare characters who retain youthful enthusiasm after the 
head is white with the weight of fifty odd years. Euthu- 
siasm that bubbled over and expended itself on objects and 
causes not always deserving it. 

He entered into the plans of others with an interest rival- 
ing that of the originators. He was swayed by each passing 
event as the pendant bud of the beech tree is swung by the 
passing breeze. Critics might have questioned what personal 
benefit he had derived from this expenditure of enthusiasm, 
but none of the settlement folks thought about it in that 
way. They knew uncle Dan declared after every sermon he 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 


m 


had heard that that “ preacher had searched the Scriptui’^ 
ez it had never been s’arched, au^ could beat the world 
preachin’.” They knew he could groan the loudest, pray 
the longest, and exhort with more fervor than anyone else, 
and that he was indeed, the right arm of the ministers 
whose line-^ lay in the settlement church work ; that h-e 
could laugh the cheeriest at a social gathering, could catch 
more fish at a “ fry” than younger members of the commu- 
nity, could ride and hunt with the best of them. A stoutj, 
rosy old man with a perennial spring of youth in his heart. 
He could entertain the children around the fireside with 
gruesome tales of the ghost of Devil’s Backbone. He couM 
point the exact tree, just before the road cut deep into th€ 
Backbone under which the traveler camped that eventful 
night, when one of his horses, a black one at that, disap- 
peared. In those days, to which the legend relates, settlers 
were few and far between, and the traveler was forced t® 
ride his remaining horse five miles to a farm and hire 
another, so that he might get his wagon, with the year’s 
supply on it to his home, some twenty miles distant. 
Uncle Dan w^ould graphically describe the blood curdling 
sensations of the traveler on finding his black steed standing 
at his own gate when he got there, jaded and sw’ eating as if 
Satan had been astride him. So the story goes, and no one 
in the settlement ever doubted but that the evil one had 
resented human intrusion, in this particular instance, and 
had ridden the black horse upon a wild midnight ride. 
Uncle Dan told of those overland trips of fifty and a hundred 
miles to the nearest market, the town on the Ouachita river.. 
He told them of the legend extant of buried gold on th€ 
ridge, and none were more credulous of this belief than h« 
was himself. There were no half way grounds with thig 
tactotum of the settlement, and when he told Parson Heedley 
he would fill the church for him that day he set about doing 
it in the most practical way. He put two of his little grand- 
sons on the plow horses and started them out to notify the 
countryside that there would be preaching at the Backbone 
churcl), and he himself trudged about the ridge to apprise 
his immediate neighbors of the fact. 


66 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 


Once did Uncle Dan hesitate in his rounds, and that was 
in front of a low, long house, half hidden in its aureole of 
blossoming peach trees. He did not call out cheerily as he 
had done at other houses he had passed. He hesitate^ enter- 
ing where he had not crossed the threshold in thirty years. 
There had been a secret antagonism between its occupant 
and himself during all that time. An animosity of long 
standing between neighbors in a pine woods settlement 
where human companionship and solace count for so much. 
But the very narrowness of their lives kept the breach open. 
They had been on the defensive the first few years after it 
had happened and the habit had grown upon them. 

The old man stood for a moment looking over the gate 
and half wondered if those phlox and verbenas growing on 
the prim little garden beds were of the same stock as those 
he knew of so many years ago, or if the seed had ^‘run out” 
and Miss Lavincy Cline had planted fresh seed. He looked 
about him with eyes that seemed at once to have] grown 
familiar with the garden. He had no doubt the woodbine, 
now gorgeous with its coral bloom, trumpeting joyously of 
early spring, was one they had found, a mere slip in the 
woods, and brought to this low log house and planted just 
there. It covered the long porch from end to end now. 
Uncle Dan had passed this way hundreds of times, but he 
had somehow turned his eyes away or had never noticed 
whether things had changed or not. Since his wife had died 
three years ago he had somehow felt less unkindly towards 
this neighbor, in fact there had not been much bitterness, 
after the first five years, in his heart against her, for Uncle 
Dan could no more harbor malice than can a rosy- cheeked 
child, but he confessed to a wholesome fear of Miss Lavincy 
Cline. He might have sent some one else to notify her of 
the preachin’, he reasoned as he walked with some trepida- 
tion up the narrow path edged with an ancient boxwood, 
but Uncle Dan had another project in view, and his enemy 
alone could further his plans. Not that he intended real- 
izing them, for guileless as Uncle Dan seemed, he had a 
secret, one that kept him wakeful those delicious spring 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 


67 


nights when Nature demands more rest than during the 
balauce of the year. This secret sent him forth to seques- 
tered spots aloDg the ridge, and his preoccupied air during 
the past few months caused his neighbors to whisper among 
themselves “ that Dan Bilberry hev acted curious ever sence 
his wife passed awa>, an’ thei’ warn’t no tellin’ if he at his 
age could stand the strain put onto him.” But Uncle Dan’s 
secret had nothing to do with his departed wife — good, faith- 
ful wife that she had been — nor had Miss Lavincy Cline in 
a direct way. He had thought long and searched diligently 
for the solution to the problem, and only a day or two 
before had it burst upon him, startling him with the near- 
ness of that for which he had been seeking afar. Behind 
Miss Lavincy ’s residence stood three walnut trees, rising 
up like green mountains, against which the little brown 
house was silhouted. Uncle Dan could have shouted with 
joy when he thought of them. Why had he not thought of 
it sooner"? He remembered now that they were well grown 
trees in his youth, and did they not answer the description 
every way? “Two walnut treet? forty feet apart, another 

set back twenty feet, half way between them, but” and 

here his joyous reflections came suddenly to an end. How 
could he. Miss Lavincy ’s mortal foe, ever gain access to that 
back yard where the walnut trees stood? There was noth- 
ing else to do but to pacify Miss Cline, adroitly and with 
tact There had been no open hos(ility recently, and that 
counted for something. With this pacific move in view, 
Uncle Dan walked up that Sunday morning to Miss Lavin- 
cy’s threshold and was wondering if he had better knock or 
call her, when she appeared in the doorway looking a little 
startled as if a ghost from a long dead past had confronted 
her on her own doorsteps. The light died out of her faded 
eyes in an instant, and a cold questioning expression greeted 
Dan Bilberry, who was rosier than his wont and breathing 
hard. 

“Good morning,” he panted. 

She nodded and passed her long, brown bony hand over 
her smooth gray hair a trifle nervously and gave no sign 


UNCLE dan’s divining HOD. 


that indicated a welcome to this unexpected guest. Still on 
the steps, the morning sun shining full on his ribicund 
countenance, and deftly touching with gold his silver locks, 
Uncle Dan was conscious that he had made a fool of himself 
hy coming there at all, but now that he was standing under 
Miss Lavincy’s unquailing eye he would tell his errand and 
get the interview over. 

cum ’round,’’ he said, ‘Ho let you know ez Brother 
Heedley wus goin’ to hev preachin’ in ther church at ’leven. 
He was overtook by ther rain last night an’ can’t get on 
to day, so he giv’ it out he would preach there.” 

‘•I’m sorry you vus called on to giv’ yerself ennj^ trouble, 
n30ut lettin’ me know, an’ am thankful ez well,” returned 
Miss Lavincy with dignity. 

Dan Bilberry hesitated long enough to add : 

“ Fine day fur preachin’ j ther rain lay ther dust’ an’ 
freshened up things.” 

“’Tain't nothin’ uncommon to hev sech a day this time 
of ther year,” she responded. And that was all ; the old 
man went down the road feeling that he had accomplished 
nothing towards his secret aim, and muttered : 

“ She ez ther same Lavincy I knowed thirty years ago, 
an’ never had the manners to ofier me er cheer. She alius 
wus the stiffest back, don’t-give in gal in ther country, but 
she’s gettin’ old ’nough to learn some sense now,” and he 
looked back whence he had come, and saw the green mass 
©f the walnut trees, shimmering in the sun, and exclaimed : 

‘‘By granny,” (his nearest approach to profanity,) “I’ve 
just got to find out about them walnut trees ef it takes er 
year to do it.” 

If on that Sabbath morning Parson Heedley’ s text struck 
him as not fitting his congregation, it was not his* fault, for 
he had prepared it with the purpose of appealing to his 
flock at Okla, who were growing prosperous and he feared 
a trifle negligent of church matters. One member in par- 
ticular had failed to subscribe the amount expected of him 
towards building a new church. He prepared his sermon 
accordingly, taking his text from the 28lh chapter of Prov- 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 


69 


erbs : ‘‘He that hasteth to be rich hath an evil eye, and 
considereth not that poverty shall come upon him.” 

He had pictured how the prosperous member would wince 
under his Scriptural lash ; he had interspersed his discourse 
with proverbs bearing on the subject of riches and the seek- 
ing lor treasures. It was only when he looked upon the 
upturned laces in the little brown church in the Backbone 
settlement that he realized his sermon could have no per- 
sonal application to those humble lives j could carry no 
appeal to those who knew only poverty, in the contented 
guise it wears in remote localities. As Brother Heedley 
proceeded, the offending member of his church at Okla was 
So photographed in his mind’s eye that he forgot his audi- 
ence, forgot his surroundings, forgot that gold and silver 
were commodities almost unknown in a community where 
the occupants of small farms raised their own “hog and 
hominy and chickens and eggs were the means of 
exchange for calico, snuff, tobacco and coffee at the settle- 
ment store. He forgot the worn toil-embrowned laces of 
the men on the right of the church ; forgot the hard, fur- 
rowed faces of the women on the left that even in youth 
bear the stamp of laboring progenitors. That gray hopeless 
look that belongs to poverty, that unlovely aspect, the shade 
that tints all things in life that are sorrowful. He remem- 
bered only that one of his members at Okla had recently 
purchased a buggy and drove proudly by his neighbors 
who walked or rode in two-horse wagons, and it was said 
passed them in a manner calculated to show them he thought 
himself better than those whom he purposely dusted as he 
passed them. He remembered lots of vanity cropping out 
of Okla. More is the pity that he is preaching at Backbone 
settlement, where the children in the congregation were 
slumbering heavily, and a great deer hound slept at the 
foot of the rude pulpit and emitted occasional low yelps 
as he joined in a dreamland chase, much to the delight of 
sundry small boys who were perched up on the front row of 
hard wooden benches directly under the preacher’s eye. 

Miss Lavincy Cline, looking more austere than usual from 


70 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 


the depths of a gray calico suubonnet, suppressed the rising 
mirth of the >ouuger generation by one tierce disapproving 
glance from her seat on the opposite side of the church, and 
Jest the provocation occur again, she deliberately arose and 
w ith a modest but vigorous kick, starred the canine offender 
and sent him yelpiug from the sacred edifice. No one 
seemed surprised by this little interruption, for a freedom 
of action characterized the ‘’meetings” at the settlement* 
The women occasionally passed out from the church, seated 
themselves on the steps and indulged in that leminine 
luxury called “dipping,” still lending an attentive ear to 
the preachin’,” the energetic tones of the minister reach- 
ing beyond the doorway. Women with fretful babies went 
out of doors to soothe them, pausing at the windows now 
and then to catch the fragments of the sermon. 

‘•You can’t get to glory, oh brethren ! with a bag of gold 
under your arm, weighing you down to earth,” shouted 
Parson Heedley. ‘’You can’t do it, brothers ! You needn’t 
try it, sisters ! It will hinder your footsteps! It will prove 
a stumbling block 1 Oo o-o-h (with a rising accent), breth- 
ren, pray that our Great Enemy may not tempt you to look 
upon gold ; pray, brethren, piay, for its glitter will blind 
you to the ways of the righteous. ‘ How much better is it to 
get wisdom than gold, and to get understanding rather than 
Silver.’ Do you hear, brothers, do you hear sisters, the 
Bjok says it is better to get wisdom than gold, and to get 
uuderotanding than silver.^^ A peculiarity of Parson Heed- 
ley’s delivery was, that when he quoted a passage from 
Scripture, he repeated it, using different intonations and 
varying the emphasis. “ Do you think that searching and 
seeking for gold is rightful in the eyes of the Lord? Do 
you think that setting and counting your dollars will find 
favor with Him?” 

Dan Bilberry groaned “Oh, Lord!” and occasionally 
interspersed “Amen.” The congregation were accustomed 
to these emotional outbreaks on his part during service, and 
only remarked among themselves that he “was plum cai- 
ried away by the preachin’.” 


UNCLE dan’s DIVININU ROD. 


71 


‘‘The getting of treasures by a lying tongue is a vanity ; 
yes, brethren, is a vanity continued the preacher, sinking 
his voice gradually as if even utterance must be hushed, so 
awful was the getting of treasures. He pointed his finger 
figuratively at the offending members at Okla, but one 
member in the Backbone Church writhed in spirit and felt the 
accusing index was directed at him. His rosy face glowed 
with shame, as his heart was pricked metaphorically by the 
discourse, for Parson Heedley builded better than he knew, 
and his scriptural lash scourged the soul of one present. 
There was one who paled and cowered before the denuncia- 
tions from the pulpit, one whose excitability of tempera- 
ment and susceptibility to every influence, added to an 
uneasy conscience, made him fancy he was the target for 
the minister’s shafts. 

“Your gold may take the shape of luxuries, vanities are 
these ; or you may hoard your gold, as old misers have 
done, and still do to this day, but remember that wealth 
gotten by vanity shall be diminished. O o o-h, brethren ! 
pray that you may love the Lord better than gold, better 
than -eilver, and lay not treasures up on earth, but in 
heaven.” 

A woman said to another on the church steps : “ Eggs is 

ten cents er dozen an’ take it out in trade.” 

“It’s er savin’ to eat ’em yerself,” responded her com- 
panion, and after this application of the sermon both gave 
attention to the preacher’s words again. 

It was a matter of some little surprise to the congregation, 
when at the conclusion of service the day Parson Heedley 
officiated, that Uncle Han strode towards home, scarcely 
waiting to exchange a word with friends outside the church, 
where the brethren of Backbone settlement assemble to 
exchange greetings and circulate neighborhood gossip. He 
had hurriedly told his son Mose not to forget to bring the 
minister home for dinner and had hastened off, leaving 
Mose to carry the baby while Mrs. Mose corraled several of 
her progeny and took charge of Brother Heedley. 

The bystanders looked curiously after Uncle Dan as he 


72 


UXCLE dan’s divining ROD. 


strode up the road, for this manner of acting was so unlike 
him. Indeed it seemed as if the heart of this Sabbath gath- 
ering had dropped out when he left them with a b ief 
^‘howdye.’^ His broad back gave no clue to the perturba- 
tion of his soul. A neighbor questioned ; 

‘‘ What ails your pa, Mose 

^‘Ther ain’t no tollin’, beseems powerful tore up in mind, 
an’ ain’t no more like hisself these days than a turkey gob- 
bler is ter er settin hen,” responded Mose, Uncle Dan’s 
youngest born, who, with Mary, his wife and four children, 
made their home with his father since the death of old Mrs. 
Bilberry. “He don’t show his age, not to speak ov an’ I 
can’t see ez he is breakin’ enny,” continued the solicitous 
neighbor. At tli’^ juncture the Speaker’s wife, an angular 
woman with square jaws and high cheek bones, broke in : 

“Ther ain’t no tellin’ what these spring ailments will run 
into. Yer can’t tell me nothin’ about this time ov the year. 
All ov us is apt to be more’n less low speritted. I seen my 
brother Jake last year begin to droop around like er chicken 
with ther pip, an’ look ez white round ther gills an’ it 
warn’t a thing ther matter with him but his liver, an’ you 
all know when yer hev that sneaky, low down, no ei’count 
feelin’, that nothin’ ain’t equal to a blue pill, an’ follow it 
up with bitters made out’n dogwood bark, poplar bark, and 
snake rout, eu some good peach brandy.” 

The wife of the solicitous neighbor stopped for want of 
breath, and the wife of Mose said : 

“It don’t seem to be reg’lar ailment, sech as liniment, 
blue pills an’ bitters could git at, but more ov a worri- 
ment of mind,” and several pairs of eyes followed hers 
towards the little church grave yard, with its rude head- 
boards, where the late Mrs. Bilberry slept. There was 
a mutual understanding and sympathy between those few, 
but one woman said to Lavincy Cline, in an undertone, 
“them young un’s of Mary an’ Mose, is enough to worrit 
ther life outen old folks as ain’t used to small children.” 

Lavincy Cline walked up the road, not very far behind 
the subject of these comments ; the lines in her face relaxing 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 


73 


a little softly, as she felt something like pity for her enemy. ' 
It was hard for old people to have life changed for them ; 
she took it home to herself. How could she bear intrusion 
in her little house beneath the walnut trees? She had lived 
so long lalone. The thought came vaguely that she might 
endure the companionship of an elderly person, but not of 
one as young as Mary or Mary’>^ children. No wonder Dan 
Bilberry was said to be “ under the weather.’’ 


CHAPTER II. 

The woods were sweet with the scent of haws, and the 
white feathery bloom* of the wild plum trees suggested the 
bridal veils ot woodland nymphs. Gentian colored flowers 
and crimson Indian root bloomed in shady spots or crept 
along the edge of Clear creek, a stream that mirrowed all 
the lovely things that bent over its running waters. The 
hills were banked with pink azealias, and the yellow jessa- 
mine and red woodbine climbed high up a trellis of oak and 
gum trees, showering perfume out upon the land, where Na- 
ture, undisturbed, is redolent with odorous things and pic- 
turesque at every turn of the woody paths. It is only when 
the hand of man tampers with her, clears away the forest 
trees, leaving charred stumps on hard red hills, and throws 
unsightly rail fences around patches of corn and cotton, that 
Nature revenges herself by wearing her ugliest guise and 
yielding grudgingly her stores. Where tall ferns grew lux- 
uriantly and the May apple put up its succulent umbrella 
to shade its snowy blossoms; where green mosses mellowed 
the soil, and rank running vines and weeds grew happily on 
the breast of the hills. Uncle Dan sat on the trunk of a fallen 
tree unobservant of all their inanimate beauty. He looked 
cautiously around him and then drew from his pocket a yel- 
low circular. He adjusted his spectacles carefully and labor- 
iously spelt every word, just as if he had not done it hun- 
dreds of times before. There were letters containing testi- 
monials in very flne type on the back of the circular, and 


74 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 


Uncle Dan wiped his spectacles and read them also, as a sort 
of ectasy grew upon his face. He did this deliberately as if 
prolonging a delightful anticipation, then, with another ner- 
Tous glance about him, he unwrapped a metallic cylinder 
and gazed upon it with reverence and affection. At one 
end of the cylinder was an eye or thimble in which he in- 
serted a wooden tube that could be opened or shut at will, 
sliding one into the other, the whole apparatus being so 
compact when closed it could be carried in his pocket. 

UncleDan’s movements would have been considered eccen- 
tric had there been any one around to see him. He removed 
his ancient silver time keeper, that like its owner had seen 
its best days, and going back some distance in the woods he 
placed it at the foot of a pine tree. Leaving it, he returned, 
the perspiration starting from his brow at the thought of 
what he was about to do He took off his hat, a shapeless 
old felt, as if it were a burden to him, and picked up the 
strange instrument as cautiously as if it had been a dyna- 
mite bomb. He held it upright and waited — the rod re 
mained stationery. UncleDan’s hand trembled with excite- 
ment. ‘A woodpecker tapping on a rotten branch startled 
him. A brown thrush twittering shyly as it flew back into 
deeper shade made him look around. With nerves stretched 
to highest tension the old man waited and watched the rod 
in his hand with intense fascination. He then walked in 
the direction of the spot where he had left his watch, still 
the rod remained stationery and even better balanced than 
its owner. A step nearer, another, and then the rod bent 
slowly and leaned in the direction whither Uncle Dan’s feet 
were tending. He drew a deep breath of satisfaction and 
exclaimed : 

^‘Ther’ ain’t no humbuggin’ this rod, fur as sure as I live 
it found that silver watch.” 

He returned to his former position on the tree trunk and 
joyfully unfolded the yellow circular again with its head- 
ing ot 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 


75 


BULA.BOOS ELECTRIC MAGNETIC RODS FOR LOCATING MINES 
OF GOLD AND SILVER, 

Also Valuable In Discoveeing Bukied Tkeasuees. 

Can indicate the presence of gold and silver and baser metals in quartz, 
or coin at the distance of 100 yards Immense undiscovered treasures at 
your own doors. With a Bulaboo Divining Rod the door to Fortune is 
open to all. Price of Rods $5.00, worth $5000 if used judiciously. We 
prepay all charges on Rod and throw in a photo engraving of Georges. Wash- 
ington, the father of his country. BULABOO & CO , Sole Agents. 

Uncle Dan gloated over the testimonials. “Ev^ery single 
one that writ takes on mightily ’bout them rods,” he said, 
with satisfaction. 

The opportunity was lacking, however, in this case. It 
was the first time that he had tested his rod since Brother 
Heedley preached at Backbone settlement, and scathed 
seekers after gold. Uncle Dan had been touched to the core 
by the minister’s words, but as is generally the case with 
impressionable natures, the impression was easily effaced. 
He eased his conscience with the argument that if gold was 
buried, and he firmly believed the tradition, that it was his 
duty to find it and put it to some good use. Since he had 
bought the rod from a travelling agent he had remembered 
authentic statements heard in his childhood about some 
former resident who had hidden bis money and it had never 
been found by the lawful heirs. They had given up look- 
ing for it and migrated years and years before. Uncle Dan, 
invigorated by hope and the possession of the divining rod, 
recalled how people had still talked of this undiscovered 
treasure, when he was growing up, and that it had been said 
that between three walnut trees the treasure lay. There was 
another legend that on top of the ridge at the foot of a pine 
tree there was gold buried Dy the Indians. But there were 
so many pine trees. Uncle Dan had been responsible for 
the trench dug upon the ridge that had excited the settle- 
ment some months ago. He had labored through a long 
summer night and had found no treasure — but the absence 
of it had not impaired his faith in the divining rod. Again 
he dug behind his smoke house and found only a rusty 
plow point buried two feet in the ground. But now he felt 
with a certainty he knew the location of the buried treasure ; 


76 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 


the traditions told of the walnut trees, and there were none 
but the three in Miss Lavincy’s yard that answered the de- 
scription. Uncle Dan had revealed to none his possession 
of the Bulaboo Electric Magnetic Eod, not even to Mose and 
Mary. He knew the excitement that would prevail, the 
comments that would ensue were it known that he, Dan Bil- 
berry, a member of the church, a grandfather, a respected 
leader of the community, had been given over to the devices 
of Satan, and was seeking for gold in the hours of night. 
What a disgraceful revelation ! The old man shuddered at 
the mere prospect, but he could not abandon his project, 
arguing that he saw the hand of Providence in the divining 
rod coming into his possession. He felt that he was ordained 
for a great discovery by a higher power, whence greater 
good would come. Miss Lavincy Cline was the only stumb- 
ling block in the way, but it seemed that Fate was arrang- 
ing matters for him, when his daughter in-law, Mary, said 
she wished him to step over to a neighbor’s and get some 
sage to make tea for the baby, sutfering with the rash. Un- 
cle Dan passed the neighbor’s house and went up the ridge 
to Miss Lavincy’s. It was a bold thing to do, but he remem- 
bered seeing a row of sage in her garden, and perhaps he 
could manage to get on a friendly footing after all these 
years. Uncle Dap, being too old to take an active part on 
the farm, had left the work to Mose, and was not averse to 
doing errands for Mary, particularly in this instance. He 
wondered what his daughter-in-law would say when he fol I 
her he had been to Lavincy’s house. During the lifetime of 
old Mrs. Bilberry such a thing as a neighborly visit had n t 
been thought of, but Mary, a soft hearted young thing, felt 
a sort of pity for the lonely woman, growing old in the 
lonelier home, and had been half tempted to visit her, only 
she was not sure her oveitures would be welcome . 

Miss Lavincy was the last person in the world with whom 
one would connect a romance. Her face was seared with 
the lines made by unresting energy, her hands knotty and 
hard told their story of unremitting toil. There was none 
of that helplessness betokened by gray hairs that appeals to 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 7 M 

one’s sympathy. None of that benign loveliness one finds 
as a compensation for old age in Miss Lavincy. She pursued 
with fierce activity her daily rounds of labor, waged wasr 
againt dust and cobwebs within doors, and weeds ani 

litter” out of doors. She swept her back yard as regu- 
larly as she did her front walk. Her moments of rest wem 
spent in piecing quilts. Thirty-seven in all she had made 
duiing her spinsterhood. The pine floor of her front roona. 
was not whiter than that of her kitchen, though naturally it 
was a matter of more pride, and its wide mud plastered fire- 
place and hearth were as bright as ‘^reddening” could 
make them. Long bunches of sweet scented and medicinal 
herbs hung from the brown rafters. The “front room” be(\ 
upon which the reputation of the provincial housekeeper 
rests oftener than does her tired body, was as high and 
swelling as a couple of featherbeds could make it, and 
immaculate with a spread of Miss Lavincy’s own knitting. 

Everyone knew that there had been a romance in her life, 
and it lent a sort of halo to her hard lonely life. It is true 
it had been partly her fault that she was not Dan Bilberry 
wife. There had been every prospect of it, but Lavincy 
Cline had been willful and her lover had been thoughtless. 
Life had taken a sudden turn for them, at the very altar, a€ 
it were, and instead of being mistress of the Bilberry farm 
and mother of Dan Bilberry’s children. Miss Lavincy lived 
all alone and eked out a living on a rugged little farnL 
which she rented out, or cropped on shares, adding to her 
slender income by exchanging chickens and eggs at the 
settlement store for the necessities that she could not raise 
at home. 

She had outlived those nearest to her, and now had onlf 
two graves in the little church yard to represent the ties<X 
kinship, her father and her mother, the former having died 
when Lavincy was a child. It was sad, but she had no time 
to indulge in self pity, and the older people who remem- 
bered as far back as her youth only said, ‘^She brought it 
all on herself, bein’ so contrary wise an’ sot in her ways,” a 
contradiction which was never questioned. 


78 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 


It happeneii this way in tliat very room, where the plaited 
rag rug Miss Lavincy had made was the only cheerful bit of 
color. 

The wedding guests had assembled from far and near, 
there was the scent of savory viands in and around the 
kitchen. Long tables were spread under the walnut trees 
at the back of the lionse. On a little table in the centre of 
the room was a candle and a Bible. Tallow candles on 
chandeliers, improvised from two lathes forming a cross, 
cheerily dripped sperm upon the assembled guests, who 
came early and were wearying for the close of the ceremony 
that they might enjoy the wedding supper, the odor of 
which whettod their appetites as they waited. 

It was to have been, as the minister stated when he stood 
up, a marriage by license.’^ Dan Bilberry entered hold- 
ing Lavincy by the hand, a fresh, wholesome looking bride 
of eighteen years in simple check muslin frock. Dan, a 
stalwart lad, his rosy face a glowing crimson up to the roots 
of his hair, happier in possession of a gaily flowered vest 
and the strong scented pomade on his hair than of his 
blushing flancee. 

The company in the hush that followed the entrance of 
the bridal pair heard the parson say : 

Let me see your license,” and those who witnessed the 
scene say the groom nervously searched his pockets, turning 
deadly pale the further he went. So many pockets there 
seemed to have been in that wedding suit. Everyone 
waited expectantly. Lavincy flushed, paled, laughed a 
little hysterically, but the desired document was not forth- 
coming, and with beads of perspiration standing on his brow 
the groom jerked out despairingly : 

“I ain’t got ’em ; I forgot ’em. I’ve got ’em at home in 
my other coat pocket. I hev to go an’ get ’em” 

There was a significant pause and the parson said : 

I can’t in the eyes of the law go on without a license 
duly accredited.” 

The mortification of Lavincy could not be compared with 
Dan’s confusion of mind. The embarrassment of his position 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 


79 


was appalling. He knew his offense was unpardonable. 
The bridal pair gazed helplessly at each other ; the minister 
seemed to have been paralyzed by this unexpected turn of 
affairs. 

“You’ll have to go and get the license, an’ we’ll wait till 
you get back,” some one had presence of mind to suggest in 
the painful suspense that fell upon the room. Someone 
tittered ; fatal mirth. It was as if LavinCy had been lashed 
across the face ; she snatched her hand from Dan Bilberry, 
who in the palsy that seized him, still clung to it, and said : 

“ Yer can go an’ get ther license an’ forget to come back 
ef yer want to ; I ain’t carin’ fur no such flighty unthoughted 
” and here she left the room. 

Dan lived five miles away from the settlement in those 
days, over roads that were rough and uncertain in the day- 
time. Never had groom such a wild ride on his wedding 
night. It was nearly 10 o’clock when he returned with the 
paper, fraught with such siernificance to him. The company 
in the meantime had been beguiled into good humored 
waiting by Mrs. Cline, Lavincy’s mother, inviting them to 
eat supper during the interval that must elapse before 
Dan Bilberry’s return. Poor soul, this breaking into her 
arrangements vexed her sorely, but her native independence 
came to her aid. Knowing the dominant will of her daugh- 
ter and her hasty temper, she feared the effect of this 
interruption on her account, and could only hope, as she 
expressed it to an intimate friend, “ ’ Vincy would er cooled 
down ’gainst Dan’s getting back.” 

But Lavincy had no idea of being cooled down. Locking 
herself in the shed room, she nursed her wrath and gave 
admittance to no one. To be laughed at through the care- 
lessness of a man was not to be endured. She had always 
been considered highstrung, and was not to be had for the 
asking. She felt that she was dragged through the mire of 
humiliation ! And she knew who it was that giggled ; oh, 
how she hated that Simmons girl as she thought of it. 
“Lou Simmons that went on ridiculous ’bout Dan Bilberry 
at the pertracted meetin’ last summer. She’s wishin’ she 


30 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 


WHS standin’ up with him herself. She alius did take on 
®ver him — sech as he is,’’ said poor Laviucj . She had 
loved Ddu foudly but her affection could not stand the fiery 
®rdeal of ridicule. 

plum ridiculus,” she kept sayiugr, “an’ I never wus 
30 beset an’ outdone.” And then Lavincy refused to be 
pacified when Dan returned, and to his importunities out- 
side the shed room door she had returned bitterest satire or 
lemained silent. 

Argument and entreaty were of no avail, and Dan could 
only explain to the guests, aided by Mrs. Cline, “That 
Lavincy was plum vorritted, an’ like ez not wouldn’t cum 
^rouud fur a day or two.” 

Lou Simmons remar ked sarcastically that she “ liked to 
see sperrit met with sperrit, an’ ef she wus in his place she’d 
show Lavincy Cline a thi.ig or two,” and poor Dan. grasping 
at any suggestion to appease his implacable lady love asked 
her what her plan would be. 

“I’d just up an’ marry some one ez good ez Lavincy Cline, 
an’ not so high strung an’ techy. Yei’d think you wus half 
dead ’bout her, ther wav she’s actin’. ’ 

The advice of Lou Simmons was acted upon, in reality, 
m a few days. Lavincy, unyielding to Dan’s appeal “to 
go on with ther marryin’,” put him on his mettle, and as 
le had the license and the wedding outfit, in a moment of 
injured vanity and wounded affection, he had married Lou 
Simmons herself and never seriously regretted it. With 
the natural buoyancy of heart and elasticity of spirit natural 
to him, Dan Bilberry had made the most of life, and no 
regrets for the lost Lavincy had marred it. 

The sorrow had been hers, when he was irrevocably lost 
to her. He had made a fair exchange. She had gained 
nothing. A soul cannot be deluged with the acrid waters, 
such as swept over Lavincy when love and its attendant 
happiness were lost to her without leaving some bitterness 
behind. She had hoped at first that he would be unhappy 
and probably some day acknowledge to her that he had 
made a mistake, but she grew to watch his domestic happi- 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 


81 


ness without a pang of envy, for he was one of those men 
whose possessions rose in value above those of other people. 
A natural state of affairs when a man thinks his wife is 
better, his children prettier than those of other people, 
and a comfortable thing it is to feel your horse is finer, your 
dogs better bred, your cow superior to those of your neighbor, 
and your pigs fatter. With TJnclf' Dan possession enhanced 
value, so Miss Lavincy had never been able to discover any 
flaw in his happiness trom external signs, and she had never 
exchang' d a dozen words with him in thirty years, not until 
the morning he came t) notify her of Brother Heedley’s 

preachin’ ” Even the most forlorn, the lowliest, the sad- 
dest, the most callous of humanity feel an inspiration that 
might be called the joy of living at some special times — in 
the spring of the year particularly. It seems the resurrec- 
tion of Nature touches us some way. The impulse that sets 
the sap running upward, the stirring that opens buds and 
shakes the boughs into feathery bloom ; the touch that 
revivifies, reanimates and inspires hard, cold and unlovely 
things, out of doors, reaches us in the soft air we breathe. 
A sense of youth grows up in old hearts, diffusing a soft 
temporary glow, a feeling comes that something pleasant is 
about to happen, for one is apt to expect material signs in 
answer to spiritual symptoms. Miss Lavincy attributed 
the unusual elation she felt one morning to the fact that the 
blue pullet, after her first incubating experience, proudly 
'exhibited twelve chicks out of a setting of Thirteen eggs. 

know’d she’d keep her nest.” said Miss Lavincy, who 
talked a great deal to heiself, having no one else to listen, 
^‘fur her mammy wus a powerlul good layer an’ setter, but 
I don’t know as I kalkeilated on a roun’ dozen.” 

Another pleasant augury for the day was the putting on 
of her apron wrong side out. 

“Some is just sure to cum ter day as will be pleasant to 
see, lurit’s a sign I don’t knowcz ever failed,” and she 
looked into the “ front t-oom ” and put the two chairs in 
primer Older, though a trifle closer tc-gether, Baying in an 
apologetic tone : 


82 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 


“ It looks powerful onsociable fur chairs to be way acrost 
the room from ’nother.” She straightened the lamp on the 
little pine table. Miss Lavincy always prided herself on 
never having put a piece of red flannel in the bowl of the 
lamp to make it look like red glass, as the settlement folke 
were doing; 

“It do look like folks er tryin’ to be airish, when they 
take to makin’ things look what they ain’t ralely and while 
I’d be considerable sot up to hev a kerosene lamp as wus 
red glass, I ain’t going to put red flannel in a white glass 
lamp an’ let on it wus red.” Miss Lavincy was thinking of 
this self abnegation, almost wishing she were not so strict in 
the matter of this red flannel, when a shadow fell across the 
porch, and Dan Bilberry stood again, uninvited, upon her 
threshold. 

It gave her “a turn,” as she said afterwards, to see him 
there, but Miss Lavincy couldn’t for the life of her look 
quite as austere as she had done on the recent occasion^ 
owing, it is presumed, to the commendable course of the 
blue pullet and the general air of “something pleasant” in 
the day. 

“Good morning,” he said. 

“ Good morning, Mr. Bilberry,” she said in a half cordial 
but smileless way. He was fanning himself with his hat,^ 
perspiring profusely. 

The woodbine threw a grateful shade, and the low house, 
sweet smelling and cool, suggested his next remark. 

“This is ther coolest place I knows on,” not meaning the 
frigidity of Miss Cline’s customary attitude towards him. 

The remark, savoring of praise of her home, pleased her 
and she said : 

“Will yer walk in and set down, or will you hev a cheer 
out’en here; but it’s a sight cooler on the back porch 

Uncle Dan was elated and said quickly : 

“I’m thet warm natured ez that tells on me, an’ if it’s all 
the same to yer. Miss Lavincy, I’ll set awhile out there an’ 
be close to the water shelf as used to be ’gainst the kitchen 
door.” 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 


83 


Miss Lavincy resented this faint reference to the past, bnt 
her curiosity to know w^hat brought him to her house made 
her let it pass unnoticed. 

He took a copious draft of the cool spring water from the 
bucket on the shelf; the gourd looked like the one that 
hung there years ago How familiar everything seemed, 
but his mind was not of that forgotten past, but the active 
present. Here he was under the verv shade of the walnut 
trees. He was studying the ground intently until he became 
^ware that Miss Lavincy was looking at him questioningly. 
He left his glad reflections for a moment and explained his 
mission. 

“Mary was that anxious to git some sage— an’ we ain’t 
got none — to make some tea for the baby, and I wus 
reminded ov your garde:: fur T wus noticin’ the other day it 
had sage in it, an’ I thought I’d just cum here and git some 
ef you had it to spare.” 

Miss Lavincy put on her sunbonnet and went out into the 
garden to gather i , always glad to be able to share her herbs 
with neighbors, if any of the Bilberry’s could be called her 
neighbors. 

Dan Bilberry, left alone, congratulated himself on his 
diplomacy, ar d sat mentally measuring the distance between 
the walnut trees and found them to answer the description, 
as well as he could judge from his point of vantage. His 
divining rod was in his pocket. It seemed to him that he 
could feel it drawing him, forcing him out into the yard, so 
vivid was his imagination. He obeyed the impulse to step 
out beneath the trees, and he was chagrined that he had 
not been able to send his hostess clear off the premises. She 
was likely to return at any moment, and he could not risk 
discovery, but it seemed as if at a certain point, he stood 
rooted to the ground. What else could it mean, but that 
the Bulaboo Electric MagneticBod in his pocket was using his 
limbs as a medium to communicate to him where the treasure 
jay hidden. His very body seemed charged with electricity. 
He saw Miss Lavincy approaching, but he believed it impos- 
sible for him to move voluntarily. He heard her say in her 


84 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 


even monotone : “I hev put in a bunch of catnip an’ some 
mint, along with the sage. Mint is powerful comfortin’ in 
chills, and the catnip alius comes in handy fur er baby long^ 
er ’bout teething time.” With a supreme effort he moved 
toward her — to his excited fancy it seemed merely automatic 
movement. He had grown pale, his hand trembled. Lest 
she should notice his agitation, he said : 

“Them walnut trees — how they hev growed. They ar’ — 
they — I just seem plum carried away with them trees, Miss 
Lavincy.” 

She noticed the tremulous movement of his lips, the 
unusual paleness, and though not apt to jump to conclu- 
sions, she decided that Dan Bilberry had something on his 
mind, or was threatened with sudden illness, which made 
her say to her erstwhile enemy, with genuine friendliness: 

“Yer needn’t hurry off. Mister Bilberry, fur it’s a sight 
cooler ter start when yer rested, then to start when yer 
ain’t, an’ it wus a sorry pull fur one ov yer age.” 

The last was a trifle malicious, but Uncle Dan was imper- 
vious to the shafc at this particular time, and he answered : 

“ That’s so, Lavincy, that’s so ! But age hev not sot her 
sign on me so big yet, that I ain’t got no plans fur the 
future. No,*’ he added, “I hev it in me to carry out en’s 
ov somethin’, ez I’ve sot my mind on, an’ being’ short- 
winded ain’t goin’ to keep me from climbin’ a hill an’ er 
try in’.” 

Unconsciously he was gazing at her, with a deep purpose 
infhis eyes. 

Miss Lavincy was startled, and if her brown furrowed 
cheek had been capable of a softer hue, she might have 
blushed. 


CHAPTER III. 

That friendly lelations were established between Miss 
Lavincy Cline and Dan Bilberry after a lapse of thirty years- 
was enough to set the tongues of the settlement wagging. 
Never had any bit of neighborhood gossip been so fraught 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 


85^ 


with possibilities and the Eidge was alive with conjecture. 

The solicitous neighbor declared with a solemn shake of 
his head, that ‘^Dan Bilberry was failin^ an^ it ain’t no more 
than nat’ial thet he should want to reckonsile hisself with 
every creetui’ pn earth afore he left; it, an’ Lavincy Cline 
ain’c one to hold out ’gainst er hand ther same ez reachin’ to 
her from ther grave.” Bat looking at Uncle Dan’s broad, 
sturdy figure, square shoulders and rubicund countenance, 
the wife of the solicitous neighbor ejaculated, ‘‘Pshaw t 
Dan Bilberry ain’c ailin’ no more’n nothin — he may hev 
sumthin’ on his mind, f z sum ’lows — but I am one to say it’s 
marryin’ instead of buryin’.” When the Sunday came 
around on which Brother Brown of the Backbone circuit 
filled his appointment at the settlement church, and Uncle 
Dan was missing from his accustomed place in the Amen 
corner, surmise seemed to have reached a climax. 

Mose and Mary could give no explanation of his absence — 
and when one of the brethren related how he had met him 
(Uncle Dan) going up the road, as he came down to the 
church, there was considerable comment, and the informant 
was the centie of inquiring neighbors, and enjoyed a certain 
prestige in the conclave outside the church after preaching. 

“’Beared like he warn’t so ready to howdye me ez com- 
mon, and when I seen him cornin’ I stopped to give him 
ther time ov day, but he ’peared like he was flustrated an^ 
worrited, an’ went right on like he wus lookin’ fur somethin’ 
perticklar, I just turned to see wher’ he wus goin’ with his 
face turned from ther Lord’s word ov a Sabbath mornin’^ 
an’ the last I seen ov him, he wus goin’ right through the 
Devil’s Backbone ez hard ez he could split.” There were 
some present of a pessimistic turn of mind who harbored a 
doubt of ever seeing Uncle Dan again. 

“ Mose, it do look as ef yei’d be skeered up ’bout yer Pa, 
fur I hev not knowed ther day when ov his own choosin’ he 
missed ther preachin’.” 

Mose said nothing, for Mary had had her own notions 
lately about the erratic movements of her father-in law and 
had found herself planning how Mose and herself would 


!86 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 


reign in undisputed sway at the Bilberry farm, and had 
done as much as was pnident in aiding the reconciliation 
between the two wlio had been at “outs for rhirty years.” 
Id fact Mary had been the cause of several visits being paid 
Mi'^s Lavincy by her former suitor She. sent up some 
young onions in a neighborly way, after receiving the herb?; 
then Uncle Dan was asked to step up to Miss Cline’s and 
:ask for the loan of her cotton cards, then she sent some quilt 
scraps, and altogetlier Mary felt satisfied with the progress 
of the makeup and assured herself that Miss Lavincy would 
never give up her home for another though sue might be 
made to share it. Uncle Dan’s .daughter-in-law attrihuted 
bis preoccupied manner, his solitary rambles, to Miss La- 
vincy, and his absence from preaching she decided was due 
to his respect for the dead. It seemed to her it would be 
flying in the face of his deceased wife (fisiuratively speaking) 
%o be sitting opposite Miss Lavincy in church, coveting her 
ancient charms, while the lormer Mrs. Bilberry lay but a 
stone’s throw away in the church yard. 

Things did not progress to Uncle Dan’s satisfaction, how- 
over,' if they did to Mark’s. It is true he had gained a 
Triendly footing in Miss Lavinc>’s home, but he was no 
nearer finding the hidden treasure, for an opportunity had 
mever presented itself when he might test his divining rod 
.:and locate it. And it was for this purpose he had mounted 
the hills that Sunday morning. He had determined to take 
.advantage of Miss Lavincy’s attendance at church and pros- 
pect under the walnut trees. Conscience warred with 
<}Ovetousness. Early religious training cried out against 
anything that savored of labor or gain on the Sabbath day, 
but Uncle Dan was not to be deterred by conscientious 
•scruples Irom the one chance he had w^aited for, and in a 
•<quiver of excitement he unfolded the Eod that was to smite 
Nthe gate of Fortune. He felt inspired as the prophets of 
old, and as he stood with the magnetic invention of Bulaboo 
o&i Co. held upright he likened himself to Moses smiting the 
Eock of Horeb. Exultation radiated from him, as the 
^moments passed into an hour. The walnut trees threw 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 




quivering shadows upon the white-haired treasure hunter,, 
the drone of winged insects, the proud “cluck” of the blue 
pullet, the happy call of the wrens building a nest in the 
woodbine, were the only sounds that broke that strange 
stillness that seems to enwrap the country on the Sabbath. 
Uncle Dan was not discouraged by the immovability of the 
Rod, but grew a bit restless after a while, fearful of Miss 
Lavincy’s return. 

In the meantime Brother Brown looked around the church 
in a perplexed way, and felt it a personal grievance that 
Brother Bilberry was not present to lead in prayer, for who 
could follow up his discourse with such fervent exhortation 
as could Uncle Dan, and when he gave out the hymn he did 
it in a dismal way as if he doubted whether those present 
had the heart to sing under the circumstances 

“On Jordan’s stormy banks I stand 
And cast a wishful eye 
To Canaan’s fair and happy land, 

Where my possessions lie.” 

Out in the cool forest aisles the aged hymn rang with its 
shrill demi quavers of the tired old voices and staccato notes 
of tresh young voices, out it swelled into the sandy yellow 
road stretched scroll like down the hill, and the sound met 
Uncle Dan, who unsuccessful but undaunted, came down 
from the heights lest he be discovered by the congregation^ . 
and questioned as to his mission : 

“To Ca-na-an’s ta-a-ir an’ ha-appy la-a-and and 
Whe-er my posses-sions lie.” 

He felt a vague uneasiness and wondered if he had not for- 
feited any spiritual possessions he might have had by^ 
hunting for gold in Miss Lavincy’s back yard unknown to 
her, but instead of returning to grace, if he had fallen from^ 
it, he planned with a deeper purpose. 

Miss Lavincy was not nervous, but that night she awakened 
with a tremor and sat up in bed listening. 

“Law!” she said to herself after a moment’s reflection,. 

it’s the calf done opened the gate an’ got in ther yard.’”" 
The window was opened, for she was an advocate of thor- 
ough ventilation, and nobody ever thought of shutting the.- 


^8 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 


windows on a warm night in the B ickbone Settlement, and 
she had only to raBe herself in bed and lean forward and 
draw the calico curtain aside to command a view of her 
back premises. 

Shocked rather than frightened, she saw a man standing 
partly in the shadow of the walnut trees. Her first thought 
was that some neighbor had taken suddenly ill and she had 
been sent for — i nt Jiere was no sound further than the 
stealthy tread that had awakened her. The moon was jmt 
rising above the, i)ine trees that girded the ridge, and glori- 
fied the dark earth with its golden pencilings. The world 
grew luminous, not with the glare of day, but the seductive 
glamour of moonlight. The leaves were of tinsel, the sandy, 
white yard seemed strewn with diamonds. Moonlight that 
so fantastically garbs the real with unreal settings and stay- 
ings of false lights and dark shadows and blazing stars. 

Miss Lavincy crept out of bed and stood close against the 
xjalico curtain, peering out at the unexpected apparition. 
She was not afraid, but awed, curious, and when the moon- 
light, shifting through the swaying branches fell full upon 
this strange visitant’s face she gave a gasp, and almost 
called out. She was thankful, she said afterwards, that she 
had not. 

She could see that he stood perfectly still, and after that 
first glance of recognition MisS Lavincy was overwhelmed 
with maidenly indignation, and reflected that were the hour 
and the attire more appropriate she would give him a piece 
of her mind. Then she remembered that he was accused of 
^‘actin’ curious ” — but a sweet suggestion stirred her woman 
mi^d, and it was that Dan Bilberry had revived the regard 
he cherished for her in her youth, and it had driven him to 
all sorts of youthful folly. 

‘‘Ther ain’t no fool like er old fool,” was Miss Lavincy’s 
sentimental reflections behind the calico curtains. 

Uncle Dan, unconscious of her espionage, was using the 
refractory Divining Eod, which refused to budge, as had 
been the case that Sabbath morning. His faith did not 
waver in it, nor in the belief that he was upon the appointed 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 


89 


spot. How long he might have waited there is no telling, 
but Miss Lavincy, in her ephemeral attire, felt an involun- 
tary convulsive action about the nose, indicating a sneeze. 
She remembered hearing that to prtss the end of the little 
finger with the thumb nail of same hand, would suppress 
the inclination, she hastily tried it, but it seemed to give 
impetus to the vigorous sneeze that startled Uncle Dan to 
an apoplectic point, for he had in his intense preoccupation 
forgotten the spinster’s eyistence or the proximity of a liv- 
ing creature. 

Miss Lavincy buried her face in the feather pillow, and 
smothered two more sneezes that followed, and when she 
returned to the window to see the effect of this outbreak on 
her supposed admirer, he was nowheie visible. 

She seemed a trifle impatient next morning to get through 
with her work and a restlessness foreign to her attested itself 
in her getting up from shelling English peas, and walking 
to the back porch, lookii g out as if she expected to see 
something unusual. 

She studied intently the footprints on the sandy yard 
under the walnut trees and she needed no further corrobo- 
ration of her eyes the night befoi e. She had many surmises^ 
and for once in many years her mind wrestled with uncer- 
tainty, gyrated between hope and fear. She remembered 
how often she had heard her mother say in speaking of that 
night long ago which had played so important a part in the 
destiny that “Dan Bilberry was thet torn up in mind he 
never eat a bite ov his own weddiu’ supper the night 
Lavincy wouldn’t marry ov him, though he passed and 
repassed ther table stacked with vict’als.” 

Lavincy wondered if this was the memory that affected 
him so strangely now at this late day, but she put the 
thought from her with an impatieitt, “He can’t le er 
studyin’ vict’als ez he didn’t eat thirty years ago,” and 
came to a happier solution of his unparalleled behavior. 

She was not sentimental, but after she had done her 
mornin’ work, she opened a trunk, one of those ancient 
receptacles covered with rawhide, and shook out a yellow 


30 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 


muslin froct, fashioned not unlike the dresses of to-day, 
with short waist and great sleeves. She handled it as one 
might touch the garments that had been worn by one 
loved, but now dead, shook out its neat folds and looked 
at it long and anxiously. 

“ It needs bleachin’ and though she knew nothing about 
poetical justice, she felt that her wedding dress of thirty 
years ago should at least do its intended duty, with the 
mental proviso, of course, should such au occasion occur 
when it was needed. Dan Bilberry, miserable lest he had 
been discovered by Miss Lavincy, determined the next day 
to make a clean breast of it to her ; and throw himself on 
her mercy if he could not enlist her aid in his scheme. 

“I wouldner hev it git out round over ther country ez I 
wus er seekin’ fur gold, fur ther folks ain’t forgot what 
Brother Heedley had to say of such ‘seekers fur gold,’ and 
I’ll tell Miss Lavincy ez half is hers, bein’ it wus found on 
her premises, but the leadin’ her up to it is what bothers 
me.” 

The lady in question, when she saw him coming decided 
to be discreet and say nothing that would indicate her 
knowledge of his nocturnal visit, lest he take alarm and 
shy clear of his amorous intentions altogether. An exchange 
of commonplace inquiries and remarks about the “powerful 
hot weather” and the likelihood of rain, and the probable 
peach crop of Miss Lavincy’s trees, and to her despondent 
answer to the last remark “Thet ef er late freeze didn’t set 
’em back an’ kill ther young fruit, there’d come er dry 
spell an’ they’d apt ez not ter take ther dry rot, an’ it do 
look like fur ther past two years I ain’t hed enough sweet 
peach pickles ter run ther seasons through.” 

Uncle Dan seized on this as an opening to the subject near 
his heart, though hig speech seemed a trifle far fetched and 
had little bearing on “ peach pickles.” 

“Ther ar’ many things ez don’t work out ez we exactly 
plan, Lavincy, an’ while yer can’t keep ther peaches from 
bein’ scarce, yer might be put in er way of flndin’ what’s a 
Asight better. There ar’ some things, Lavincy ez don’t come 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 


9r. 

to ban’ easy, yer have to hustle ter get ^em, au’ it ain’t so- 
much the hankerin’ arter ’em, lur ther good ter yerself, bufc 
it looks like it’s wasted if it ain’t found hy them ez knows 
an’ would set store on it. 

Nothing could be plainer to Miss Lavincy, but she wasr 
not disposed to offer encouragement at the very start, so sho 
remarked cautiously : 

What we want Mister Bilberry ain’t alius the best fur 

us.” 

“ ’Tain’t the wantin’ ov it, but the right ot it. It ’pears'- 
ter me that the hau’ of Providence wus puttin’ my foot in 
the road to set right the wrong ez wus done years back.’^ 
Uncle Dan was gazing speculatively at a duck chasing a^ 
grasshopper, and paused as if to watch • its ill balanceih- 
attempts, but he was not thinking of it, he was weighing the 
jiossibility of Lavincy’s entering into his search for the buried 
treasure. He reasoned that without her sanction andco-op-^ 
eration it were a hopeless undertaking. Since last nighty, 
when he entered her yard like a thief, and on the verge oP 
discovery had been discovered, or tancied so, until his pres- 
ent interview with Miss Lavincy had quieted his fears, for 
she had not mentioned the matter, he knew he must secure 
her as a confederate. The duck made a frantic dive for- 
ward, lost its equilibrium, but secured the grasshopper. 

“Lavincy,” he said solemnly, “hev yer ever heard tell ov a 
buried treasure f ’ 

Her mind went swiftly to the little churchyard where the 
late* Mrs. Bilberry slept without waking, and her voice ia 
answering shook a little with scorn and indignation, that 
he should at such a time have referred to her (Mrs. Bilberry^ 
as a treasure, buried or otherwise. 

“I hev heard tell ov ’em, but fur my part them ez hev got 
none, nor never had none, ez er sight ther better.” 

Her visitor looked at her, struck by the sudden change iia. 
her manner. The lines in her face were set, her faded eyes 
had a look in them that reminded him of the Lavincy Cline 
he courted but feared in his youth. A sudden suspicion 
occurred to him. Suppose she ki.ew of this gold hiddeit. 


92 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 


beneath the walnut trees, suppose she had access to it, and — 
but that was not probable, he reasoned, because it was 
hardly possible that she had a divining rod, and to his mind 
that was the only Sesame to hidden treasures, so it could 
not be that which made her so ‘‘techy,” and he went on : 

“I dunno, I dunno. Supposin’ a treasure had er been lost 
fur years and years, an’ it had been so ez no one wus 
searchin’ fur it but knowed it wus there a waitin’.” 

Miss Lavincy’s face softened. It was not his late lamented 
spouse, after all, whom he meant. 

“It ain’t ez if yer had buried it yerself and didn’t want it 
nor keer fur it, but to know yer stand er chance ter get it 
by er waitin’ and workin’ and prayin’, yes, er prayin’ fur 
tiier treasure ez will hope yer up in yer old days. One thet 
yer ain’t had all these years fur very uuthoughtMness. 

Miss Lavincy had not his youthful enthusiasm, but there 
was a flavor of romance in this wooing of a lover antedated 
thirty years. A glow as might suffuse an aged beech tree 
when a stray sunbeam creeps in the woods and touches its 
silvery trunk, stole over Miss Lavincy. A tenderness that 
claimed no kinship with the fervor and passion of youth, 
swayed her and prompted her next remark. 

“8eek an’ yer shall find, Dan Bilberry.” 

Uncle Dan gasped for breath. The unlooked for, gracious 
co-operation was more than he had expected, and in his 
gratitude, his delight and excitement attending these emo- 
tions, he burst out : 

‘•Lavincy, I couldn’t seek an’ I couldn’t find without yer 
help. If the lost treasure is found, Lavincy, it will be thet 
yer give me ther hand ter help me. Lavincy, ther’ ain’t a 
soul as knows on it but yerself. Mose, nor Mary, nor none 
ov ’em. I knowed I could trust yer ef yer wasn’t too set 
agin me, an’ I’ve cum here an’ set an’ talked, a seein’ ef 
you’d be contrary wise, an’ not say ther word,” he laughed 
with zest and the joyousness of youth. 

The sound of his laughter thrilled Miss Lavincy, and that 
portion of her anatomy that she had once called her heart, 
but had almost forgotten she possessed, stirred strangely, 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 


93 


and she laughed also, a sort of serious mirth, it is true, but 
then she aud Joy had been strangers for many years, and 
Joy and Mirth are twin sisters. 

Dan Bilberry rose to leave, and she drew him into the 
front room for a moment, and pointing to the little pine 
table, said with an embarrassed air. 

Dan, it Spears powerful strange, but that’s the same 
table ez we stood afore, thirty years gone,” he looked at her 
in a dazed way as she went on, ^^an’ the Bible, ther 
preacher wus to — wus to — I’ve got it yit. It ’pears like 
things do work out right, ef we wait long enough.” 

Her eyes beamed softly, like two lamps lighting the way 
back into that long gone past. Her companion looked at 
her apin’ehensively as she continued, laying a hard brown 
hand upon his sleeve : 

It ain’t no use, Dan, tryin’ ter set ther wrong I done yer 
thet night right, fur I know yer wus flustrated an’ couldn’t 
help about the license — but ez ther Lord has ’lowed me to 
live .to see this day, I’m thet thankful thet I don’t mind 
tellin’ yer thet I hev ez kind feelin’ fur yer now ez I had 
theny 

He groped blindly with her meaning, touched, but not 
quite understanding, and said, blithely : 

I’ll see yer agin to-morrer, Lavincy.” 

I hope yer won’t never hev cause to rue the search yer 
made ter find ther treasure ez wus lost,” she said, half 
smiling. 

Uncle Dan went briskly down the hill, happy in the con- 
sciousness of having reached his goal. He was sorry that 
he had not told Miss Lavincy about the Divining Bod, she 
had taken such a sensible view of his searchiug for the 
supposed treasure, that no doubt she would readily have 
acquiesced to the use of the mysterious instrument 
in the back yard at once — but then it was well to let her 
get used to the idea that he was searching for the treasure. 

By granny !” he said suddenly, “ I never let on to her the 
gold wus buried under them walnut trees,” aud then he 
began the mental process of going over word for word of 


94 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 


his conversation with Miss Lavincy. He could not walk 
and think vigorously, so he sat down on the roadside and 
wiped the perspiration, that staited in great drops upon his 
brow, as he recalled the recent interview. Why he hadn’t 
even told her that he was looking for it in her yard. Maybe 
she had never heard the legend of the buried treasure. It 
was likely she had entirely inisunderstood him. He was so 
elated and engrossed by his supposed success, he had not 
been explicit. ‘‘By granny! ef Dan Bilberry didn’t play 
ther wilds! Why Lavincy Cline took it ez ef she wus the 
treasure ez I wus seek in’, an’ it did look powerful like it 
when I come to think on it,” then the humor of the situation 
struck him, and he laughed until the tears trickled down 
his fat cheeks, and at the next farm house below him on 
the ridge a woman looked up from her knitting and said : 
“1 hear Uncle Dan er laughin’ a sight somewher’s, an’ 
I’m glad he’s tickled, fur he ’peared to be plum beat out 
las’ time I seen him.” 

The future, which had arranged itself without any volition 
on his part, was not distastedil to Uncle Dan, now that he 
reviewed the situation. He recalled Miss Lavincy’s tender 
allusions to the past with genuine pleasure and almost 
regretted that he had not understood it at the moment and 
reciprocated in like manner. He took a practical view of it 
also, with an eye to his creature comforts. He knew there 
wasn’t a better housekeeper in the country, and he was 
getting too old to be worried with the children of Mose and 
Mary. It would be a sort of relief to enjoy the daily com- 
panionship of an elderly person again, and then the walnut 
trees— the buried treasure would be his, he could pursue his 
search without hindrance. 

Domestic virtues counted for much more than did per- 
sonal attractions in the eyes of Miss Lavincy’s involuntary 
suitor. The more he thought of it the better he liked the 
prospect, and fearing any alteration in the affair, as she 
had understood it, and to make assurance doubly sure, he 
retraced his steps and found Miss Lavincy in her little cow- 
pen near the road, milking. He leaned on the rail fence 


UNCLE dan’s divining ROD. 95 

for a few moments, regarding the scene with an enjoyable 
«ense of proprietorship. . She looked up and saw him. It 
was a new sensation to Miss Laviucy to feel she was an 
object of interest to any one. She slipped the rope from 
the calf’s neck and smiled at Uncle Dan, who said with a 
merry twinkle in his eyes : 

‘‘I cum back, Laviucy, to tell yer not to forgit ter jog my 
mind ’bout ther license when sech er day ez set by yerself 
cums ’round. I’m powerful upset at times, yer know.” 

. She looked after him kindly when he turned away. The 
cow chewed her cud reflectively and wondered at the remiss- 
ness of her mistress, who after a time exclaimed : 

^‘Land’s sake, I plum furgot an’ let the calf get ther strip- 
pin’s, an’ ther’ won’t be much show fur churnin’ to morrer.” 
***#*#*♦# 

The Bulaboo Electro Magnetic Divining Eod lost its occult 
power, or else the treasure was not buried where reported, 
for Miss Laviucy, or rather Mrs. Bilberry, was the only 
treasure Uncle Dan ever found near the walnut trees or 
anywhere else, and as he frequently declared, ‘^Lavincy wus 
worth her weight in gold,” it did not really matter if the 
magnetism had departed from his Divining Eod. 


MR. PODSEN’S LETTER. 


It was sore labor for Mr. Podsen to wi ite a letter and tlie 
mere fact of lus writing one at all proved bow deeply be 
was interested in tbe matter. 

Mr. Podsen was not a scbolar; it is doubtful if be could 
have read a chapter tbrongb in bis old Bible even tbougb it 
was coarse print, without stopping to spell out a great 
many words, but that did not keep him from reading tbe 
Bible, nor did bis illiteracy keep him from reading tbe 
parish paper published at a little inland town twenty miles 
distant. He read tbe “New Times,” as did everybody else 
in tbe Four Fork settlement, and this journal shaped tbe 
jiolitics and voiced tbe sentiments unanimously of this pine 
bill country. 

Mr. Podsen was not a politician, in fact be bad beard but 
one political speech in tbe course of bis life, and that bad 
been a week previous, and was tbe source of inspiration of 
the letter he wrote that brought him Into local prominence^ 
He had been very much impressed by tbe speech made by a 
candidate for judicial honors. He, in simple minded faith, 
gazed upon him as an inspired prophet. Tbe speaker 
employed most of tbe time denouncing tbe other faction. 
He represented that all the virtues lay in bis branch of tbe 
Democratic party. He ca Ijd bis opponents renegades, 
traitors, and heaped epithets upon them that made old Mr. 
Podsen say afterwards that be “ was powerful sorry fur 
them other fellers gitten secb a tongue lasbiu^ and not there 
to take it up.” 

Tbe speaker bad said amidst bis wild gyrations: “And 
they are urged on in their wild career of disloyalty by tbe 
imess of tbe State ! What are tbe newspapers of Louisiana 


MR. PODSEN’S letter. 


97 


doing at this moment? I say wbat are they doing at this 
critical moment when the ranks of the great Democratic 
party is rent ill twain? Are they urging harmony? Are 
they advocating measures, not men? Are they uplifting 
the banner of Democracy? Where are your editors, on the 
fence ! on the fence !’^ The candidate w\as red in the face 
from excess of emotion and eloquence. “ They will wait 
until the great issue is decided, then with braying trumpets 
will join the ranks of victory,” pointing his finger almost in 
the upturned face of old man Podsen, he asked tragically, 
^‘What is your parish iiaper doing?” Mr. Podseii murmured 
anxiously, ‘‘It ain’t doin’ nothin’ as I knows of.” 

“Doing nothin,” the speaker went on, inspired by the 
unexpected answer. “What are you doing? Nothing! 
What IS the trouble? You free white voters, you who 
enjoy the heritag-e or American citizenship, let a few 
men who call themselves ‘moulders of public opinion,’ 
shape your politics, name your candidates for you, 
or else they sit ou the fence and let you struggle 
wildly without proper guidance to cast your vote 
intelligently.” Then with a few more denunciatory remarks 
about the “Time serving pi ess,” he sat dowui amidst that 
impressive silence that greets spread-eagle oratory in a 
pine woods settlement. “He is sure a hard hitter,” said a 
long, lank man as he cut a chew off a quarter pound plug of 
tobacco. 

“He’s talkin’ hisself plum inter office, if Four Forks votes 
counts fur ennything,” said another. Mr. Potlsen said noth- 
ing, but wended his way home; tull of thought, and a trifle 
indignant because of the attack made on his parish paper, 
for it ranked next to his Bible in his appreciation. True, it 
was only a little four page weekly with a patent outside and 
often made up of jilate matter inside, but he had never 
heard it found fault with until to day. It did not occur to 
him that it contained nothing political of late, was taking 
no stand in the present campaign. His political opinions 
had been moulded by the “New Times” in years past, but 
he scarcely knew now that there was any political campaign 


98 


MR. PODSEN’S letter. 


on band, and had only learned the state of affairs by attend- 
ing ^‘the speakiff an’ barbecue dinner.” In remote settle- 
ments in North Louisiana, a barbecue is an important factor 
in politics. 

Mr. Podsen felt aggrieved also with the “New Times,” 
and the candidate’s words rang in his ears as he passed 
down the shining sandy road that went up hill and down 
into the heart of the sweet smelling pine woods, until it 
passed the duor of his log-house that had shied at the mud 
chimney once upon a time aud never recovered its equi- 
librium since. He gave expression to his grievances to 
Sarah, his wife, who listened with mild curiosity to his 
account of the meeting. “ The judge said ez how the news- 
paper editors wus half of them er settin’ on the fence.” 
Sarah Podsen’s eye’s strayed off to the “stake and rider” 
rail fence that bounded her domains and wondered how the 
editors managed it. “Eu he said,” continued her husband 
indignantly, “ how they’d jump off when the percessiou cum 
along with trumpets en sech.” “Why not?*’ asked Sarah, 
who was not wise in the way of political acrobats. 

“’Cause that ain’t right, Sarah, if ic is politics^ an’ it’s 
right fur er editor to take a stand fur one side or another. 
I ain’t never thought much about it before, but Pve been 
ruminating considerably to-day, an’ it seems like the “New 
Times” ain’t actin’ square, fur I never even kuowed who 
was ruuniu’ fur sheriff* until terday. It’s that young man 
ez runs it now, for in his pa’s days ther warn’t no settin’ on 
the fence. I knew him atore the war an’ have took his 
I)aper ever since it’s been running. The boy ain’t run- 
ning the ^New Times’ like his pa did in his days. 
He is on the fence, and if he don’t come off by his 
own will, he will fall off on one side or t’other, and them as 
falls off a fence is apt to get their heads bumped.” Old Mr. 
Podsen unconsciously illustrated a journalistic feat, with 
which you are all familiar. And this is why Mr. Podsen 
.wrote the letter of remonstrance to the young editor. Be 
cause he had known his father, be felt an interest in him, 
he felt a pride in his local ;paper. He felt sure when ap- 


MR. PODSEN’s letter. 


99 


prised of liis equivocal position the ‘^[N'ew Times” editor 
would mend bis ways. He bated to feel that the remarks of 
the political candidate could apply to the Kew Times.*? 
Mr. Podseu trudged two miles down the sandy road to the 
fourth-class postoffice that was fitted up in the end of the 
cross roads store and surprised the store keeper by purchas- 
ing a stamped euverlope and a i^iece of writin^ paper.” 
The purchase did not pass unchallenged by the proprietor 
of the store, who was postmaster also. 

“Eerkon you goin^ to write to your married daughter, 
Mary Lu,” he questioned cautiously. 

“ Ko, I ain’t er writin’ to Mary Lu,” returned Mr. Podsen 
reticently. 

Wa’al, 1 didn’t know but what you was.” His customer 
was non-committal. 

The woods wore a blush of wild honeysuckles, the dog- 
wood bkssoms and feathery haws spread a bridal veil over 
the world, that lush damp odor of spring was crushed out 
from underfoot, but Mr. Podsen had no thought of spring’s 
charms ; he was anxious to get home and actually quivered 
with excitement when he began to write his letter. It was 
a laborious task, his knotted old fingers were more accus- 
tomed to the contact of plow handle, or hoe, than in manip- 
ulating a pen. His aged face glowed with pride at the ful- 
fillment of conscious duty. He wrote : 

Mr. Editur i hav tuk yer paper ever t-ince yer pa wus livin, fur we wus 
friends afore ther war an’ he wus not a two sided man, he got on one side 
or t’other, -he never set on the fence to my knowin’, I won’t take no paper 
ez don’t know it’s own mind, so you must come off ther fence if you want 
me to tak’ ther paper. Let me hear from you an’ how you stand. 

Youre friend, J. PODSEN. 

p, S.— Come off ther fence. 

Mr. Podsen could not lay enough emphasis on that last 
appeal. 

There was an indignant laugh in the editorial sanctum of 
the “New Times” when Mr. Podsen’s letter was opened. 
The young editor did not know that in the ill spelt scrawl 
there lay a deep earnestness of purpose, an indefinite desire 
to aid him, a kindness of intention. 


100 


MR. PODSEN’S letter. 


You know how an editor, a young editor partieularly, acts 
when his dignity is assailed — when his course is criticised. 
He has his weapon always ready for action — his pen is 
always loaded, with trigger raised. So this young editor, 
not having an idea that Mr. Podsen was the unassuming 
individual that he really was, turned his whole battery of 
sarcasm and ridicule upon him in a two column article on 
the editorial page. He had to leave out the baking powder 
advertisement in that issue so as to make room for it, but 
what was an advertisement more or lesb when an editor’s 
honor was assailed by an unknown party ? The article was 
headed : 


BANKRUPT OF THE NEW TIMES. 

WITHDRAWAL OF A DOLLAR SUBSCRIPTION. 
THE GREAT MOGUL OF FOUR FORKS. 
DICTATOR PODSEN OF THE CROSS ROADS. 


It was an unequal match (but the young editor did not 
know it,) this matching of young, vigorous brains against 
age and ignorance. 

In the meantime old Mr. Podsen hoped his letter had been 
productive of good, and had given “backbone” to the young 
man who ran the parish paper. He hoped he had stepped 
down from the fence. The Saturday following he made his 
way to the cross roads store and postoffice. The store 
keeper, who had an oblique squint in one eye, leered upon 
the old man a moment and then gave vent to a loud guffaw. 
“ Yer are lookin’ furyer paper, air yer, Dictator Podsen f’ 
and some of the Saturday evening loungers joined in the 
laugh. One of them said, “ Is ther Great Mogul of Four 
Forks cum down hy’ar to show us how to run polertics?” 

The old man looked wonderingly from one to another, not 
understanding, but feeling vaguely that in some manner they 
were lacking in their usual deference to him. His age had 
entitled him to respect heretofore. There were sly winks, 
innuendoes and laughs that puzzed him. One man ^ho was 


MR. PODSEN’s letter. 


101 


whittling the outer edge of the counter as he sat on a meat 
barrel, said : It don’t do fur folks to get biggetty and try 

an’ run things as they don’t know nothin ’bout. They ar^ 
more’n apt to end like ther hen that went er settin’ on a par- 
sel of snake eggs.” 

Mr. Podsen turned towards home with a feeling of anxiety 
new to him, with his copy of the ‘‘New Times” unopened 
in his hand. 

A neighbor passed him on the road and said with a laugh, 
^‘Your dollar seems a sight bigger’ n ourn. Uncle Podsen. 
It called fur more ! ” The old man looked at him in a be- 
wildered way. 

“They sure did chaw yer in ther paper.” The woods 
seemed to catch up the mocking laugh and echo and re echo 
it until Mr. Podsen reached his own door step where he sat 
down wearily. 

Sarah Podsen looked at him in surprise, “Yer look plum 
beat out,” she said. 

“ It’s powerful warm for this time of year, Sarah,” he said, 
“an’ I’m er gitten old to walk so fur.” Still the paper lay 
unopened on his knee. 

“Eest a spell an’ I’ll get yer some cool water an’ yer can 
read yer paper while yer’ restin’,” his wife said gently. 

Sitting there, his kind old face wrinkled by care, his hair 
whitened by time, silhoutted against the doorway, he read 
the editorial devoted to him. He, who had lived far removed 
from what the world calls civilization, he who had done no 
man harm, nor thought evil of a neighbor in all the course 
of his narrow, numble life. 

The cruel sarcasm smote him, the blade of ridicule cut, 
the blighting reference to the orthography and rhetoric 
brought a flush to his faded cheek, and the scathing sugges- 
tion that he subscribe for the “blue back speller,’’ instead 
of the “New Times,” brought a look of intense pain to the 
tired old eyes, but he was overwhelmed by the thought that 
his kind intention had been misunderstood and his friendly 
interest mistaken for criticism. 

This was why a laugh had greeted him at the store and 


102 


MR. PODSEN’s letter. 


postoffice ; this was why a laugh had followed him down the 
road. 

He dropped his face into his hands with something like a 
sob. He was trembling in every limb. Sarah, his wife, 
lifted his head tenderly and wiped the dampness from his 
brow. He looked at her, his lips quivering. ^’^Taintno 
use worryin’, Sarah, it’s just a stroke hav’ come. I never 
meant no harm— but I reckon,” .he said faltering, ^Hher 
editur couldn’t tell it by ther hand writin’ ; he never took it 
in ther right sperrit — fur I ain’t no scholar an’ never wus, 
Sarah.” 

And she, poor simple soul, did not understand that this 
was only one of the many hearts that have been stabbed to 
death by the pen. 


MENDING MANDY. 


The cor a fields wore soft shades of tan and golden. They 
^stretched away to the dark green woods, now almost gray 
with the September haze hung over them. The blue of the 
sky melted into this gray green edge, and when the sunset 
rimmed it with gold, it had the delusive effect of a brighter 
world, that lay beyond, separated from the little village by 
a barrier of sweet smelling forest trees. 

But none dwelt in that village whose mind went beyond 
their accustomed setting. No spirit abided there who grew 
restless under present limitations. If the daily routine of 
farm life, the endless task of sowing and reaping, grew irk- 
some no one complained. If the hands let fall the plow 
handle it was from some physical inability j not because an 
aspiring mind reached out into that dream world beyond .the 
edge of an individual horizon. 

Contentment clothed like a garment the inhabitants of 
that village, set among the hills. The log school house, 
where the road forked ; the shabby little church arouad 
which a few farm houses focussed, showed that it was a point 
of some local importance at any rate. 

Dreams of what the bright world beyond contained did 
not disturb the even tenor of Mending M indy’s’’ ways, 
though she sat on the steps of her cabin every evening with 
contemplative eyes fixed on the golden glow in the west. It 
was rather an impassive gaze that held no hope of the future 
and yet was as free from retrospective. If the past held any- 
thing worth thinking about it was in a period long gone by, 
and the coming days like the present held nothing more 
than the occupation from which the appellation of “Mend- 
ing Mandy ” had been derived. She was not given to fre- 


104 


MENDING MANDY. 


quent speech at any time, and when silent no one credited 
her with any thought that reached iurther than the little 
settlement in which she lived. No one knew where Mandy 
came from. She seemed to have no one belonging to her. 
Th ire had been inquiries at first, probably, or perhaps not, 
for these simple country folks have the true courtesy that 
asks not the private history of the stranger within their 
gates. 

It had long ceased to be a matter of conjecture where 
Mending Mandy came from. She was an accepted fact in 
Hard Scramble settlement. She was an incorporated insti- 
tution and incorporated with the history of the place. For 
years she had been a welcome visitor as well as necessity in 
every household. She filled the unique position which will 
make the overwoi ked housekeepers all over the land envious 
of the locality favored by Mending Mandy’s presence. As 
her name would indicate, she was a renovator of old cloth- 
ing, and went from house to house, patching, mending, 
quilting and darning. Such heaps of homespun shirts and 
skirts, jeans pants, cottonade dresses and aprons that Mend- 
ing Mandy made “’most ez good ez new.’ A seamstress of 
this kind was a luxury in which the settlement folks could 
not indulge had it not been that Mandy accepted in return 
for her services, such things as could be spared from the 
farmer’s store of faim products. Corn meal, meat and 
buttermilk, and such articles of old wearing apparel as might 
be utilized by Mandy, whose costumes were grotesque but 
clean and whole. Often, when not in actual want, she would 
walk away from a place where she had been hard at work 
all day with empty hands. She had no desire to accumu- 
late more of the w^orld’s goods than present needs demanded. 
She was an odd looking figure, with close cropped wavy 
hair that had grown gray at Hard Scramble. Tail, erect, 
with a figure that expressed independence under its fifty 
years rather than dependence. Mandy’s face, hard and 
unlovely, gave no hint of a handsome youth, unless the 
perfect white teeth, larely visible between the thin lips, and 
her dark eyes, were a remnant of her maidenly charms. 


MENDING MANDY. 


105 


Mandy had peculiar eyes, at once defiant and shrinking. 
She looked at you with fierce directness for the instant. A 
glance, at once comprehensive and analytical, then a shrink- 
ing fear seemed to dawn in them, the expression one sees in 
the eyes of a dog when whipped by its master. It seemed 
as if she was inclined to defy any interest humanity might 
take in her, aud then shrank in fear of it. 

When Mandy had first come to Hard Scramble those who 
remembered said in speaking of her ^‘She warn’t onhkely 
lookin^ them days, but she alius acted uncommon. No one 
thought of her now as odd, though she was recognized as a 
privileged character. She not only served to lighten the 
burden of of the overworked housekeeper by mending and 
patching, but she nursed the sick, worried with fretful 
babies, so as to give rest to an ailing mother. Many a grate- 
ful household could testify to Mandy’s unselfish devotion to 
her seif impoi?ed duty. 

Unconsciously Mandy was a missionary. If lightening 
toil, e«&iijg paiij, 1 Cot mg the »»ciiiy, is not mk'Siouaiy work, 
what is? Her field of labor was limited, but that did not 
make her any the less a missionary. She had formed no 
attachment for any special individual or family. Her man- 
ner, always abrupt, had not a shade’s difference in it towards 
any one. She was never betrayed into any emotion. She 
possessed an imperturbable demeanor that forbade famil- 
iarity. One fancied that at some time during Mandy’s life 
she had exercised the ster.iest self repression, but there was 
no probing her impassiveness. Children loved her, but 
clinging fingers aud prattling lips won no mark of affection 
from her ; only a response that went so far as administering 
to their material wants and comfort. 

Her home was on the outer edge of the settlement, set 
back against the woods, a cabin of rough hewn logs, old and 
gray, like its owner. The rail fence around it was of the 
same neutral tint. Gray is the color of want, poverty, 
threatening skies aud gloomy weather. That peculiar tint 
of gray that deepens into black seemed to belong to all 
things sorrowful in life. In the winter Mandy’s place of 


106 


MENDING MANDY. 


abode seemed desolate indeed, but it was bright enough the 
September day preceding the protracted meeting that had 
been the theme of discourse all through the settlement for 
weeks before. Mandy had done nothing to furbish up her 
home, but Nature had crowned it with an aureole of golden 
rod. The fence corners were choked with ‘^sneeze” weeds, 
as the children called them, which bristled with aromatic 
rosettes of yellow. The black gum trees, at the back of the 
house were turning red and yellow with undue haste, and 
seemed buj a reflection of the sunset opposite on which 
Mandy’s eyes rested in an unseeing manner. 

She had just reached home after a day at Mrs. Spiller’s, 
who had sent her a message at daylight to come and help her 
in her preparations for the protracted meeting which began 
on the morrow. These preparations consisted rather of a 
culinary nature, but there were feather beds to sun and bed 
clothing to air ; in fact every house in ,the settlement was 
made festive with hanging of quilts of intense brilliancy 
that day. Such bars and stars and wheels illumined these 
bed coverings. The air was charged with mild excitement 
and Mrs. Spiller was full of pleasant anticipations as she 
boiled home cured hams, pink and juicy, stewed pears, 
baked layer cakes and made potato custards. 

It airflt like no regMar meetin’ ez weVe ever had he ea 
bouts, Mandy,” she said, knowing that Mandy took little 
interest in religious matters, and indeed it was the only ob 
jection ever urged against her by the good people of Hard 
Scramble settlement. Mrs. Skiller was thinking of this 
indifference, though she did not , think it ungodliness in 
Mandy, as it would have been in any one else’s case, and she 
went on : 

It’s er sort of union revival, when all ther churches 
unites in er meetin’ an’ it do ’pear like ez ther won’t be no 
one left in this whole country ez won’t experience a change 
of heart if what they say ov the preacher ez is cornin’ to 
open the meetin’ is true. Uncle Jim Britton ’lows ez he 
converted forty sinners at ther meetin’ last week at Low 
Creek. Not thet he has got time to stay at any one place 


M’.CNDING MANDY. 


107 


more’n a week. He just holds ther m^etin’ an’ turns the 
converted over to ther Lord an’ to ther preacher on that 
circuit an’ then ^oes on to next ’pointments. 

Protracted meetings, singing conventions and prayer 
meetings had a social as well as well as religious aspect in 
that section. It was hard to tell where one feature began 
and the other left off. A basket dinner on the grounds be- 
tween morning and evening service was. the rule, and the 
hospitable folks of Hard Scramble prepared to feed the hun- 
dreds of visitors who came from all parts of the country. 
The dinner was decidedly a social affiir. While the women 
were busy at home with their baking and stewing, and 
house cleaning, the men folks were erecting a vast “arbor” 
near the church, which was too small for the occasion, and 
the meeting must of necessity be held out of doors. The 
material for the “arbor” was conveniently near at hand. 
Dogwood and ironwood trees, whose branches fork regularly 
at not a great height from the ground, were cut in the woods 
and formed the upright supports in the framework of the 
arbor. Slim pine saplings were laid overhead, fitting in the 
forks, miking a substantial structure on which the shining 
green boughs of pine and gum and silvery beech were piled, 
making a fragrant canopy overhead. God seems closer to 
us when we worship him in the midst of Nature, and ’tis no 
wonder the simple honest hearts of the people in the coun- 
try respond more readily to the teachings of religion and 
are fired with a spiritual enthusiasm that would make the 
religious Neophyte of the city blush for his lack of faith. 

Mandy helped Mrs. Spiller in her numerous jobs, but did 
consent to go to preaching and that lady asked finally : 

“Mindy, why is it you ar’ so powerful sot agin goin’ to 
ther church house or to outdoor preachin’. I’ve yet to see 
the day that you went ov yer own mind to meetin’. Ido 
call ter mind one time yer went and toted Maria Haley’s 
baby fur her when she wus poorly, an’ took keer of it during 
preachin’, and Maria’s young un never give yer no rest in 
ther church, an’ you had to be walkin’ it out. doors most ov 
the time. I mast say it plum beats me how you sets yerself 
agin ther Lord.” 


108 


MENDING MANDT. 


Mandy’s eyes had that shrinkiog expression in them as 
she answered sullenly : 

^‘I ain^t set agin ther Lord ez I can see. I don^t know ez 
goin’ an’ settin’ in a church house an’ prayin’ an’ takin’ on 
counts fur much ef yer feels jer heart is cold inside of yer, 
an’ mine don’t feel no other way.” 

This was a long speech for Mandy, and Mrs. Spiller was a 
little surprised, but she was much concerned about Mandy’s 
spiritual welfare, and as she deftly spread the pink mayhaw 
jelly between the layers of her cakes she continued : 

^‘Some folks neglect the means of grace, an’ who knows 
but ez the preacher as cums to- morrow may be the instrw- 
ment God has chose to S(*ften yer heart.” 

Mandy looked as if she preferred to remain stony hearted. 
With insistent drawl her companion went on : 

‘T’ve done forgot the preacher’s name, but they do say he 
wus a powerful sinner when he wus young ; he tells it his- 
self. I dunno wher’ he hails from. He wus converted and 
is growdn’ old in the service oi ther Lord. He just goes 
about preachin’ an’ calls hisself a Evangelist. I wish 
mightily that you’d come an’ help me tend to ther children, 
fur they ar’ a sight of botherment at meetin’, most specially 
Jakey. He is just a cuttin’ ov his stomach teeth, an’ is that 
fretful.” Mrs. Spiller knew that an appeal to Mandy of this 
sort would be more effectual than any from a religious stand- 
point, but Mandy only said : “I’ll keep Jakey an’ the 
youngest children fur yer when yer go ter preachin’, but I 
’low to keep ’em at home, where they ain’t worrited in ther 
heat an’ ther dust,” and Mrs. Spiller was too glad of this 
concession not to accept her proposition, for the care of 
children did detract from her enjoyment of the meeting. 

And then as Mandy sat on her own doorsteps in the twi- 
light that evening she thought no more of to morrow, though 
it was ever present in the mind of every other woman in the 
settlement. Her thoughts were going back through the 
years to a scene that had a country church for a background. 
She had daily for thirty years gone over every detail of the 
tragedy that had marred her life with the same hopeless 


MENDING MANDY. 


109 


conclusion that there were no extenuating circumstances in 
the case. Stolid, indifferent, with hard wrinkled face, it 
was difficult to realize that “Mending Mandy” had run the 
gamut of the fiercest human emotions. Her very soul had 
been scorched by the heat of passion, her heart seared by a 
burning sorrow such as few beings experience. 

At first she had settled into a dull apathy, then a resolve 
to live, though death seemed the better part, and now after 
years of a str angely isolated life she enjoyed a sort of con- 
tentment such as animals of a lower order might feel. 

No one knew of what Mandy was thinking as she watched 
the glow of the west fiide slowly into pale silvery light, and 
when the blue darkness crept on and deepened into the soft 
blackness of a starlight night, Mandy still sat thinking. 


CHAPTER II. 

Old Uncle John Alsen, who sat on a table in the corner of 
the improvised ball room, was pouring his soul out in the 
good old dancing tune, “Cotton Eyed Joe,’’ and it was im- 
possible for young feet to keep still, or the old one? in the 
company, for that matter. His youngest son Jim was beat- 
ing time on the upper part of the fiddle strings with knit- 
ting needles, which gave the effect of a banjo accompani- 
ment. Jim and Uncle John were a whole orchestra in them- 
selves, though they had but the one instrument between 
them. The boys and girls in the whole country said “Uncle 
John’s fiddle could jest out en out talk, an’ him an’ Jim wus 
er whole team by therselves” 

They were a “whole team” that night at Catamount Bend, 
and Amanda Johnson was the acknowledged belle of the 
ball. Partners vied with each other in being gallant. She 
did not live in the imme^iiate neighborhood, but was visit- 
ing her cousins on the Bend, coming a distance of fifteen 
miles on horseback the day before this festive occasion. 

She had been dancing with Buck Edmonds more than any 
one else that evening, a tall good looking youth of the 


110 


MENDING MANDY. 


neighborhood, who was the proud aud happy possessor of a 
crimsou satin necktie, which attracted the admiring atten- 
tion of all present. 

It did not suit the calico shirt so well as it did the glossy 
black hair aud sunburned, but smooth, complexion 

Buck had been ‘‘er settin’ ” Amanda daring the past 
summer, much to the disgust of her brother Ike, who con- 
ceived a great contempt for Buck and was very unre- 
served in his criticism of him to his sister. 

When they were on their way from home to Catamount 
Bend the day before the ball he had said : 

‘‘I woulln’er mind er bringin’ yer over to AuntNants’ to 
ther ball ef it warn’o fur that biggetty Edmonds. He jest 
sets yer from the time yer strike ther Bend till yer leave 

Amanda was accustomed to these brotherly comments, 
and had too much spirit to let them go unchallenged. 
^‘What hev you got agin’ Buck Edmonds? I can’t fur the 
life ov me see what he’s done yer. An’ef yer think I’m 
goin’ to boost up yer grudge yer ar’ powerful mistook. I 
dunno ez Buck Edm )uds ain’t niore’n a match fur enny one 
in ther country,” aud with a spirit to aggravate Ike’s griev- 
ance she said, ‘‘Ther’ ain’t er girl on the Bend that would n’t 
jump at a chance to git him.” 

Ike looked contemptuous. “All girls ain’t ez big er fool 
€z you, Amanda,” he said. “It’s a pity yer ar’ so easily 
took in by a feller with slick hair and biggetiy ways. I 
ain’t got nothin’ in perticklar agin him, but I’m not er han- 
kerin’ to be enny closer kin to Buck Edmonds ’an I am this 
minute.” 

Amanda’s face flashed and her lip curled disdainfully, 
understanding the prejudice her brother had against her 
lover, for Buck Edmonds had all the physical perfection 
that Ike lacked, and to some weak natures, envy makes 
superiority in another seem a personal injury. Ike, with 
his low brow, watery blue eyes, squat figure, appeared 
always at a disadvantage besides Buck, who was tall and 
strong, with those deep set brown eyes that look intelligent, 
even though they are an index to an untutored mind. 


MENDING MANDY. 


Ill 


Amanda looked very sweet and wholesome in a striped 
muslin that had pink ribbon bows tucked here and there on 
the short waist, as was the fashion in those days, as she 
courtesied and bowed in the cotillion. They interspersed 
some rollicking games between the dances, and it was dur- 
ing ^‘Thread the needle and wind the ball’’ that Buck said 
to Amanda : 

“I’d er been over your way right soon, fur I wus hanker- 
in’ fur a sight of yer, ef yer hadn’t er come over fur ther 
ball.” 

“Ike ’lowed all erlong to fetch me fur the ball, ever sence 
Aunt Nants sent us word to come over to ther frolic.” 

“I was poweiful upset when it rained so heavy night) 
afore last, I was afeared the creeks might get up an’ yer 
couldn’t get here ’thout swimmin’,” said Buck. 

Amanda looked at him with a gleam of misohief in her 
dark eyes, and drawled : “That wouldn’er upset yer, I 
know, fur that big slough from Saddle Bayou gits swimmin’ 
when it rains, an’ Ann Tarrant couldn’er got here, ez she 
has to cross it,” she glanced at a short homely girl standing 
opposite to them. Bucks eyes followed hei’s, and as they 
rested on Ann’s unattractive face and figure, he li^ughed 
derisively, knowing Amanda was only affecting jealousy to 
tease him. 

“Shucks ! yer are a good one ! Yer know J ain’t er carin’ 
’bout no other girl in ther country but y<.u, Amanda.” He 
pressed her hand tenderly, and as he bent his head over her^ 
in their gyrations in the game, he whispered : 

“Yer might ez well say ‘ yes,’ Amanda, fur I’ll jest ha’nfc 
yer till yer do.” 

“I ain’t never had no call to say yes to nothin’ ez I’ve 
heard yit,” returned the girl, looking down, but returning 
the pressure of his hand. 

“Yer ain’t no fool, Amanda,” he said confidently, “yer 
know I’ve been er lovin’ yer fur ther longest an’ I laid off to 
ask yer to marry me to-night.” His voice, always resonant, 
had a queer huskiness in it. Amanda looked up and smiled. 
She did not resist the emotions that swept over her. She 


112 


MENDING MANDY. 


had known Buck’s feelii'gs towards her and had anticipated 
this proposal. She had wondered how and where the 
avowal would take place. It was a matter of fact wooing, 
but to Amanda all the romance of the world seemed woven 
into it, it was the realization of her rosiest dreams, ic held 
the poetry, the music of existence. She thrilled with in- 
tense feeling as his dnrk eyes looked into hers with passion- 
ate tenderness Oh ! the divinity of love wherever it is 
found. The lips may be untutored in its softest, musical 
phrases, but the eyes will speak what the heart feels, though 
the lips cannot uttei it. The eyes are the index of the heart’s 
thoughts and Buck read his answer in Amanda’s eyes before 
she wispered ; 

“It ain’t needful to tell you that I never have cared about 
marryin’ anybody else. Buck.” 

Ike leaning sulkily in the doorway had been watching his 
sister and sending warning glances in her direction as she 
again and again accepted Buck as her partner in the games 
and dances. 

No one knew just how it happened, the music ceased with 
a sudden crash. There was a startled silence that told of 
tense nerves — a silence that was a forerunner of tragedy. It 
was like the sudden snapping of a string on John Alsen’s 
fiddle in the midst of an estatic ^ ‘break down.” 

Buck Edwards was white to the lips with wrath that had 
leapt into one fierce blow and stretched Ike Johnson flat 
upon the puncheon floor. It was done like the hurling of a 
thunderbolt ; a dozen men sprung to their feet at once. 

Amanda had paled, when Ike, provoked beyond reason 
at Buck’s devotion to her, had stepped from the doorway and 
seized her roughly by the arm, saying : 

“Yer set down, or I’ll take yer home ef yer can’t dince 
with nothin’ better’u ther low lived feller, Buck Edmonds.” 

The insult was so unexpected, so gross, that for a moment 
neither Amanda nor Buck, on whose arm she was leaning, 
grasped the full significance of it. Then Buck’s strojig right 
arm resented the affront, and Amanda fled into an adjoining 
room, weeping. 


MENDING MANDY. 


113 


No oae sympathized with Ike Johns )q, in fact feeling ran 
high against him, who as a visitor to the Bend had dared 
violate hospitality, and Buck E Imonds was a favorite in the 
neighborhood in which he lived, and his friends would have 
severely chastised Ike but for that provincial code of honor 
incorporated in the terse phrase, “let every fellow tote his 
own skillet 

Every one knew that the matter would not end there, and 
the end to such a beginning was always in favor of the 
one who shoots first. 

Buck Edmonds’ friends were not of a kind to advocate 
pacific measures, and when his hot young blood, fired under 
the insult, yearned for vengeance, no one counseled him to 
refrain from violence. Ike’s kinship to A.in?.nda for the 
moment made him hold a grievance against her also, and 
the love that a moment bt^fore had been ardently avowed, 
seemed to turn and mock him. As he rode away from the 
scene of festivity, leaving Ike jiathering up his scattered 
senses, he swore that he’d have it out with him at next meet- 
ing, even if he was Amanda’s brother. 

The girl tried to pursnade Ike to return home with her 
next morning, cui tailing their visit, fancying the affair 
would blow over. She knew Buck to be of a high strung, 
passionate temperament, but his anger was short lived, for 
his big, generous heart could not harbor malice for any 
length of time, but Ike rhonght it would be showing the 
“white feather” to leave the neighborhood, and as he had 
provoked the difficulty he determijied to remain on the 
Bend and attend “preachin’ ” on Sunday night. 

Amanda, finding her brother inflexible, hoped that as 
Buck had already chastised Ike for the insult, the matter 
would end there. She was not in a good humor with her 
brother as they rode that Sunday night to the little church 
set back from the road with three large beeches in front of 
it. The smooth gray bark (»f the trees had been punctured 
by iron spikes, and served as “hitch posts.” A rude “light 
block” made of sawed logs, was near the door, illustrating 


114 


MENDING MANDY. 


the common greeting in the country “Won’t yer light an^ 
hitch 

As Amanda dismounted on the block she gazed anxiously 
around in the twilight to see if Buck was present in the 
group of men standing outside the church. It was custo- 
mary to meet at “early candlelight” for service, as the con- 
gregation lived, the majority of them, miles away and the 
roads were rough and dark. There was ,a lingering streak 
of light in the west, but the woods behind the cburch looked 
black as if night was lingering out there, Amanda’s eyes 
glanced in that direction, and then entered the church, sat- 
isfied for the moment. She bent her head and followed the 
opening prayer, and with a fervor unusual to her, and when 
the minister said, '‘Oh ! Lord, we ask Thee to let love for 
one another fill our hearts,” Amanda ejaculated “Amen !”■ 

She looked furtively across the aisle, where Ike sat, in the 
back part of the church, and noticed that by intention 
or accident no one sat near him. She regarded this as a 
mark of the disapproval felt by the young men of the settle- 
ment in regard to his recent action, for the rear bench was 
the popular location for the young men of the congregation. 
Ike grew a little restless as the service continued, and the 
reason for his isolation growing upon him, he arose quietly 
and left the church. 

Amanda, who was keenly alive to every movement that 
night, saw his departure, and a moment later, unobserved, 
she had followed him. . ’ 

The congregation was standing, singing “How Firm a 
Foundation.” The wild cadence of the old tune swept 
through the open space about the church and echoed through 
the woods. Night had settled over that outside world save 
where the wavering light from the tallow candles, which 
illuminated the church, fell through the open doorway. 

Amanda peered out beyond this square of light, and she 
seemed to see shadowy forms spring away into deeper shad- 
ows. She heard the restless tread of the horses hitched to 
the trees. She could not distinguish objects readily, but her 
eyes becoming more accustomed to the darkness, she thought 


MENDING MANDY. 


115 


she caught the outline of a figure, or figures, beneath the 
fiirtherest beech tree. There was a rustling movement, a 
sound like a suppressed oath, caught between the stanzas of 
the hymn that rose triumphantly within doors. 

In sudden terror she called out, ‘Tke ! oh. Ike and as 
if in answer there rang out a sharp report, then another, and 
by the flashes of light she saw a face, then a dark figure 
staggered and fell. There was a sadden cessation in the * 
song and a rush of men to the door, a few voices, those who 
did not hear the commotion, went on to the end of the 
stanza, And sactify to thee thy deepest distress.” White 
faced women cowered in their seats, and into every mind 
flashed the thought of the difficulty between. Ike Johnson 
and Buck Edmonds, for it was the common talk of the Bend. 
As if in that last moment the part he had played in the past 
assailed him, or a divination of the future, or whatever it is 
we might call that wisdom, that sense of justice that comes 
to the dying, Ike held Amanda’s hand, and looking into her 
pain-stricken face, said : 

It warn’t Buck Edmonds that done it, Amanda,” and a 
look of relief came into the faces of all those present. Those 
white, scared faces, seen by the light of the candles hurriedly 
snatched up in the church, now flickering a death \^atch 
beneath the trees. Ike looked into his sister’s face, with fast 
glazing eyes, saying : 

^‘It warn’t Buck ez done it, ’Mandy,” an abbreviation he 
used sometimes when feeling especially kind towards her. 
The terror on her face seemed to be accentuated by these 
words. With a sob she bent her lips to his ear and whis- 
pered something that made him cry out as if in sudden 
agony : 

‘‘Poor ’Mandy !” Then holding her hands with a despair- 
ing grasp, he said in hurried accents, *‘I’d er shot first but 
it — snapped — ” 

He seemed unconscious of that circle of anxious faces. It 
was only that of hi-< sifter that seemed to hold his gaze. 

“ilo j he didn’t, ’Mandy-r-no, he din’t, poor ’Mandy! 
Poor little sister ’Mandy ! poor ” There was a gasp 


116 


MENDING MANDY. 


that sounded like ^‘’Mandy,^^ and Amanda hid her face in 
her hands and wept for the dead and for the living, but was 
not wise enough to know that her bitterest tears might hav^ 
been shed for herself. 


CHAPTER III. 

The fields were whitening with cotton, the trees had as- 
sumed the gold and crimson heraldry of Autumn ; the red 
sumach was blazing along the roadside and in the corners of 
the rail fences. A heavily loaded wagon creaked along tho 
road, but Amanda, seated by old John Alsen on the spring 
seat, looked out with unseeing eye upon the gaily colored 
woods and sunshiny road. Her pink calico sunbonnet threw 
a delusive glow over her pale cheeks, but her lips were 
parched and dry, her eyes sunken ; every nerve was strained 
and thought had become a torture to her. She had started 
on the journey with no definite plans. When she learned 

John Alsen was going to C with his first bale of cotton 

she asked him if she might go with him, and he consented 
without any troublesome inquiries. All day, as they jour- 
neyed towards the little tuwn, neither spoke of the subject 
that lay heavy upon their hearts. Old John, who had a 
sincere affection for Buck Edmonds, having known him 
since he was a child, affected a cheerfulness he did not feel 
in that unspoken sympathy for his companion. He realized 
more clearly at the time than Amanda what she would have 
to undergo, no matter what course she pursued. 

She, in that tenderness that exonorates the dead, looked 
upon Ike as blameless, and reproached herself as being the 
cause of the tragedy. She thought of her lover with that 
pity that is a divine emanation, clothing the object, how- 
ever unworthy, with that charity which is the very essence 
of spiritual rather than of our material love. 

Amanda had no definite plans when she left home, but 
she depended on old John Alsen, whom she knew was her 
friend, as well as of her lover, to aid her in carrying out a 


MENDING MANDY. 


IIT 


determination on her part. She scarcely knew that it 
meant a complete immolation of self, and that it was a height 
of moral heroism to which weak human nature rarely at- 
tained. 

She weighed the step she was about to take in the long 
hours of the night following the arrest of Buck Edmonds. 
That night witnessed her souPs travail, and the dawn but 
found her with courage to take the step that separated her 
from that past, hallowed by memories of childhood, bound 
up by earliest affections. She realized that her family 
looked upon Buck as the murderer of her brother, Ike’s dy- 
ing statement to the contrary notwithstanding. She had" 
been questioned clof^ely in regard to what she had seen on 
the night of the tragedy, but she stolidly maintained silence. 
The step she contemplated shut out all association with the 
past, and the future only presented loneliness, self repres- 
sion and the sternest discipline of heart and mind, but 
Amanda did not hesitate to make the sacrifice. 

She knew that public opinion was in favor of Buck Ed- 
monds, and it was probable that the plea of self defense 
would clear him, that is, if she was not put on the witness 
stand. Amanda shrank from that ordeal with a terror that 
blanched her cheeks and made her limbs feel suddenly aged. 

A thought came to her like an inspiration. She recalled 
a case, in the neighborhood where she lived, of a man who 
had killed another, and though circurnstantial evidence was 
very strong against him, there was no witness, his wife being 
the only person supposed to have seen the shooting. Poor 
Amanda knew nothing of the law, it seemed only a formida- 
ble thing to crush and rend and sever, with only one assur- 
ing fact, in connection with it, that a prisoner’s wife did not 
have to testify against her husband. 

This grew into a mighty incentive to her to marry Buck 
Edmonds before the preliminary trial, that was set for the 
Monday following. It seemed the only loophole of escape 
for him, to her tortured mind, and it was with this intention 

she wa° going to C with John Alsen that October morn-^ 

ing. They were going up one of those long red hills, on- 


118 


MENDING MANDY. 


which the road turns and tndsts as if seeking a better foot- 
hold, when slie turned to her companion and said in sharp 
staccato accents : 

“Uncle John, liav'e they got him jailed f’ 

He nodded assetU, and the girl looked steadily ahead of 
her in a mighty eff »rt to keep her self control. 

A man on horseback passed them at the top of the hill. 
He nodded a g(K)d morning to them, and after he was out of 
earshot John said : 

“That’s ther deputy sheriff, Amanda, an’ I’m dead sar- 
tain he’s out seiv in’ summons on ther witnesses in ther 
ease, but he won’t get to your settlement er hour by sun, fur 
it’s gettin’ erlong to the middle ov the day now.” 

The girl looked around in sudden fear at the horseman. 
“Servin’ summons'?” she asked, nervously. 

Ya’as, an’ I would’en be much took down if he didn’t 
have one fur you, fur I heard ’em say down on the Bend 
that you’d be the main witness ’g’inst Buck, an’ if you 
knowed ennything it would all come out then, when you 
took ther oath.” She crouched close to him as if warding 
off a blow, and he added, “but it’s a good long way fur him 
to travel with the summons, an’ he er passin’ the witness on 
ther road will sorter hamper him.” In seemed as if he 
wanted Amanda to know she had a brief respite. 

She drew her breath with a choking sort of sound and 
began to speak hurriedly and in an imploring way : 

“ Yer see ther night of the ball on the Bend I promised to 
marry Buck, an’ I ain’t never took my word back, Uncle 
John. I call to mind ther tune yer was er playin’ on yer 
fiddle, it was the ‘Old Hen Cacklin’,’ when I give him my 
word to marry him. I wus tbinkin’ I’d marry him now, ez 
he’s in trouble, an’ — an’ — ” she broke out passionately, “I’d 
ruther die than marry him now, sence the killin’, but I’d 
ruther marry him than witness ’g’inst him,” she burst into 
wild sobs that were a relief to the tense nerves and excited 
brain. 

“Don’t give ’way, Amanda, ray child, ther’ ain’t no use 
takin’ on so,” the old man said, consolingly. He under- 


MENDING MANDY. 


11^ 


stood why she was averse to testifying against Buck ; he had 
felt all along that she knew more than she would acknowl- 
edge, and he resolved to help her carry out her plan,, 
though his simple mind could not grasp the magnitude of 
the step she contemplated. It seemed the right thing for 
her to do, to save her lover, but from another point of view 
it looked hard for a girl to marry a man accused of the 
murder of her brother, and he believed now that Amanda 
knew positively that Buck had been her brother’s slayer. 
Still he reasoned it out to himself as he rode along, and 
Amanda sobbed by his side. 

‘‘Ike would’er been killed by somebody else, for he wus 
powerful cantankerous, an’ picked a fuss ’thout much 
warnin’, so it would er come sooner or later,” he solilo- 
quized, “ but it wus a pity that Buck wus Amanda’s beau.” 

The square in front Of the shabby court house was grown 
up in bitter weeds, and the same aromatic growth fringed 
the narrow street that ran through the centre of the dull 
little town of 0- — , whose principal claims to notice was 
that it was the parish seat and court convent d there. The 
street lay betw^een two hills on which the unpainted stores,, 
dilapidated dwellings seemed to hang despairingly. Cotton- 
wood trees grew along the rugged sidewalk, and their silver 
whi^e foliage but intensified the glare of the summer sun 
upon the white sandy street and yards, instead of serving 
their legitimate purpose of shade trees. The most preten- 
tious building in the place was a new jail, built of brick, 

and the inhabitants of C were filled with justifiable 

pride in this evidence of municipal grandeur. 

Amanda shuddered and covered her eyes with her hands 
when she first saw the iron barred windows, as if wishing to 
shut out the vision of her lover’s face behind those bars^ 
Though incarcerated in the parish jail Buck was not behind 
the bars, as Amanda had so sadly pictured. Enjoying the 
lax rules usual in country prisons, he was in the jail yard in 
company with the jailer, and the postmaster, whose office 
was next door, had dropped in with one or two others in a 
sociable way. They were discussing animatedly a horse 


120 


MENDING MANDY. 


trading convention, an ifiStitution peculiar to some sections 
of North Louisiana, and known locally as a ‘^horse swapping 
convention.’^ The jailer was relating with gusto his per- 
sonal experience at the ‘’swappin’.” How he started in 
riding a clay bank pony, and had five dollars and twenty 
cents in his pocket, and he traded horses fitteen times, own- 
ing everything on the ground at some time during the day, 
ond at sundown he traded his last possession, an eleven year- 
old sorrel horse, along with his pistol, tor the identical clay- 
bank he had started in with in the morning, ‘‘an’ I was just 
out of my five dollars an’ twenty cents an’ inv shootin’ 
iron,” he concluded, “but I have my clay bank,” and a 
V laugh followed. 

The speaker got up and went into the front apartment 
that served as an office and general living room in the jail, 
-and to which the white pr isoners had free access unless they 
were notorious cr iminals and were confined to the ceil room. 
He returned in a moment arcompanied by John Alsen, who 
greeted all present, as old acquaintances, shaking hands all 
raround. 

After his “Hy’r yer Ruck,” he sat down and exchanged 
commonplaces about the weather-, the crops, the price of 
cotton, as if he had nothing more urgent on his nrind. One 
by one the loungers lett the yard. John Alsen waited until 
;iie and Buck were alone and then told him of Amanda’s 

presence in C and of her mission there. To the young 

man all else was merged in the thought of her proximity, 
-and the fact that she had come to him seemed a vindication, 
-a justification. He was pallid with emotion and with a 
frush of tenderness he recalled the last time he had seen her, 
the evening of the ball that had begun so happily and ended 
.80 tragically. He could see her downcast eyes, her tremu- 
lous lips, and hear the glad inflections of her voice. He 
tforgot that he wa.^ immured behind prison bars, forgot that 
strong circumstantial evidence might convict him of the 
imurder of her brother. He remembered only that he loved 
ber and that she loved him The saddest thought in the 
.dong hours in which his passionate youug heart sought to 


MENDING MANDY. 


121 


excuse its own rashness was that Amancla was lost to him 
forever, but now she was waiting outside liis prison doors» 
It was the sunburst of joy following the night of despair. 

John Alsen had no difficulty in arranging matters so that 
the marriage could take place at once. He was well known 

in 0 and was Buck’s bondsman. The clerk of the court,- 

who, with all the rest of the world sympathized with love 
in distress, went with him to the jail so that the license 
could be signed by the young prisoner, and the jailer volun- 
teered to be a witness. The latter was inclined to treat the 
affair as a huge joke, not knowing the facts in the case, but 
grew serious when the pale, hollow eyed bride came. Some 
thing in her face awed them, and the justice who had beei> 
secured to tie the knot, was visibly disappointed in the 
appearance of Amanda, whom he had doubtless pictured as 
a blushing, romantic maiden, \>ho loved not wisely, but too 
well. 

Buck felt a sadden transition from hope and joy, to dread 
and sorrow, when she entered the room, her colorless lips 
could frame no word of greeting. He clasped her hand, but 
there was no returning pressure. The dying grasp of her 
brothel’s hand she seemed to feel again, and the memory oT 
his white drawn face parsed like a shadow before the strong^ 
handsome countenance of her lover. The justice and jailer 
alike were touched by her strange apathy, and the peculiar 
shrinking expression in her eyes, and both noticed the look 
of relief in them when the ceremony was over. When the 
others were leaving the prisoners she turned to go with John 
Alsen without a word to Buck. 

Her husband looked at her wonderingly and questioned r 
‘‘You’re not going, Amanda?” At this she hesitated, and 
the old man said hurriedly : 

“Yer stay hereer minute or two an’ I’ll fetch ther wagou 
’round from the court house an’ pick yer up as I start 
home.” 

Amanda was longing to escape. She felt her will power 
weakening in the presence of Buck, and when they were 
alone she stood gazing silently at the floor. 


122 


MENDING MANDY. 


‘‘What ails yer, Amanda he said, going to her and put- 
ting his arms around her tenderly. 

She shrank from his embrace, crying, “Don^C Buck ! 
don’t! Yer know what I married yer for, don’t yer? It 
was to keep from witnessin’ ’g’inst you !” She drew nearer 
to him and whispered in sharp agony, ‘*1 saw yer, Buck, 
that night by the flash light of yer pistol V He was stunned by 
the surprise of her accusation. In a moment he understood 
the sacrifice she had made. 

They looked into each other’s eyes, he with a sudden 
misery, she with the resignation of hopelessness. 

Down the dusty street a wagon rattled and stopped in 
front of the jail. Amanda knew her kind old friend awaited 
her. She went steadily towards the door, then pausing, 
turned and saw Buck leaning against the bare prison walls. 
The forlorness of his surroundings, the despair depicted on 
his face touched her with a woman’s divine compassion. In 
another moment she was beside him, saying with white, 
quivering lips, “ I hope ther law won’t find yer guilty, an’-^ 
an’. Buck, if I never see yer ag’in I won’t forget yer as long 
as I live, an’ I’ll pray for you till I die, an’ I don’t hold er 
grudge ’g’inst yer fur what you’ve done, but it wouldn’t be 
right fur us to live together an’ be happy an’ Ike’s grave 
between us.” With that she left him and passed out into 
the sunshine of the street. 

“Uncle John,” she said, “I jest let on I was goin’ back 
with you, but you know that there’s none of my folks as 
would let. Buck Edmond’s wife darken their doors. I can’t 
go back woM?.” 

He nodded “That’s so, but what are yer aimin’ to do, 
Amanda?” 

She looked over towards the west, as if beyond the pine 
girded hills the answer would come, and said slowly : 

“I ain’t got no notion, yet, what I’m goin’ to do, but 
don’t yer worry, for you’ve done took a powerful sight of 
trouble fur Buck and me.” 

She watched the kindly old man through burning tears as 
he drove down the road that she knew wound up hill and 


MENDING MANDY. 


12a 

out across sweet smelling fiel ds, and thT ough restful stretches 
of forest until it passed the home she had fiufeited that day. 

Her old life had ended. She turned her back upon the 
road leading towards home ; upon the prison walls that held 
her husband of an hour, and upon the little town of C . 

She walked steadfastly away from the Past, going with a 
heavy heart but brave spirit into the unknown Future. 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

•T* 't' 'T' 'T' ^ 

It was only at the twilight hour, when she watched the 
glow in the west fade slowly, that “Mending Mandy’^ sat 
on the steps of her cabin in Hard Scramble settlement and 
let her thoughts go back into that Past. 


CHAPTER IV. 

There never was such a gathering at Hard Scramble as 
on that memorable September day when the protracted 
meeting closed. The yellow dust was flying in clouds along 
the country road that seemed to have waked up into a me- 
tropolitan highway that Sabbath morning. Wagons and 
buggies, jumpers and carryalls in every stage of dilapida- 
tion were under the trees in the woods about the church as 
far as the eye could reach. Many came on horseback and 
every footpath over the hills was alive with pedestrians. 

The fame of the preacher had reached afar, and the num- 
ber of conversions he had made at Low Creek made the peo- 
ple of Hard Scramble sanguine of the good he would do in 
their midst, but his efforts had surpassed their expectations, 
and daily during the week his congregation had been grow- 
ing larger. Those who did not attend the meeting seeking 
grace, or with the proper religious fervor, came through 
curiosity to hear one who had converted by his discourses 
some of the most ungodly characters in the country. 

With wonderful alchemy the sunshine was distilling sweet 
resinous odors from the pine and gum branches upon the 
arbor, and there was a soft rustling of beech leaves that did 
not interfere with the service, but sounded a sighing sort of 


124 


MENDING MANDY. 


accompaniment to the prayers uttered so devoutly beneath 
the great shining green canopy. 

The benches, brought from the church and school house, 
could not accommodate the crowd that thronged into this 
outdoor cathedral that last day. The chairs from the neigh- 
boring houses were brought into requisition, and even the 
spring seats from the numerous wagons were utilized under 
the arbor by a congregation that seemed to have no limit. 

Mrs. Spiller, sitting up in the Amen corner, under the 
very shadow of the pulpit, experienced a satisfaction she 
xarely enjoyed at ‘‘meetin^ ’’ as she watched ‘^Mending 
Mandy” contending with the fretful Jakey on the outskirts 
of the assembly. She hoped, however, that Mandy would 
get to hear the “ preachin’, as she had prevailed on her to 
accompany her to service that morning, and look after 
Jakey, who was ^Hhatpuny^’ that she didn’t like to leave 
him home, even with Mandy, and she couldn’t look alter 
him herself, and hear the preaching to any satisfaction, so 
she confided to a neighbor sitting beside her. 

Jakey screamed whenever he came within the sound of 
the preacher’s voice, and this necessitated Mandy keeping 
at a long range from the arbor. She paced back and forth 
among the wagons and horses tethered in the woods, and 
this pleased the child. She was indifferent as to her where- 
abouts, so long as he was quiet. After a time he fell asleep 
and she left him upon a quilt in a wagon and made her 
way over towards the arbor, not impelled by any interest 
she felt in the revival, or the minister, of whom she had 
heard so much during the past week, but because she wished 
to let Mrs. Spiller know that Jakey was safely asleep. 

She was a grotesque figure, in a short blue cottonade skirt 
and loose sacque of faded calico, and big brown sunbonnet, 
but everybody at Hard Scramble were accustomed to her 
appearance, and if anyone from abroad had ridiculed her, 
it would have made little difference to her, for her sturdy 
independence was not affected by public opinion. 

She started when she heard the preacher’s voice, that 
still had in it the resonance of youth. It fell upon her ears 


MENDING MANDY. 


125 


with a familiar intonation. Way back in the Past it seemed 
those tones had vibrated the chords of her spirit. Some 
one gave her a seat, and many glanced at her, while Mrs. 
Spiller considered it a great tribute to the minister’s 
eloquence that Mandy should appear interested. She sat, 
holding her sunbonnet in her lap, her gray head towering 
above those bowed in supplication around her. 

She fixed her fierce challenging gaze upon the minister’s 
face, as he read the fourth chapter of Genesis. His voice 
trembled, as if he were touched by some deep feeling, as he 
read “And now art thou cursed from the earth, which hath 
opened her mouth to receive thy brother’s blood from thy 
hand.” 

When he uttered dramatically, “And the Lord set a mark 
upon Cain,” it seemed as if the heart of that great audience 
stood still, so forceful, yet so sadly, did the words fall from 
his lips. 

All during the week he had preached in an impersonal 
way. He pointed no m^ral from his own life. He drew no 
deductions from his Past. He had looked upon himself 
as merely an instrument that God was using to accomplish 
His ends. If the divine spirit reached out through him, 
and touched the hearts of his congregation and brought 
them nearer to the throne of Grace, he felt that his work 
had not been in vain, and the Cross he had taken up in his 
strong young manhood seemed lighter to bear on his stooping 
shoulders. 

But that last day at Hard Scramble, he chose the chapter 
that was scorched into his brain. It came to him like an 
inspiration, to preach from the text that morning : 

“And Cain said unto the Lord, my punishment is greater 
than I can bear.” Mortal eyes cannot recognize the con- 
summation of Divine plans, and what seems to us a mere 
accident is often a direct revelation to another soul. 

He was not an educated man, in the strict sense of the 
word, the rhetoric was not perfect, nor the language beau- 
tiful j there was no evidence of classical training in his dis- 
course, but the deep earnestness of his manner carried 


126 


MENDING MANDY. 


conviction. With the Bible as his vantage ground he hurled 
denunciations at Sin, and touched his listeners, not alone by 
his words, but with that personal magnetism that electrified 
all hearts, however callous they might have been. His face 
bore the lines left by Pain and Sin and Sorrow. Self- 
denial and hardships had helped Age to whiten the 
black hair, and had given him a keener insight into the 
lives of others. He understood the temptations that beset 
humanity, the better for having been tempted. He could 
deal wirh the sins of his fellowmeu, because he had known 
the sorrow of sinning. 

His tones rang out over the vast assembly like that of an 
avenging spirit, then again it grew tender and beseeching. 
He thrilled and swayed and stirred the multitude. He cried: 

“Oh ! the braud of Ciin is upon me, searing my heart, 
and scorching my brain, and the brand of Cain is upon you, 
for you have crucified the Lamb, with your sins, and His 
blood is crying out to you from the Cross.’^ 

The excitement grew intense, low moans ran through the 
throng, fervent ejaculations interrupted him, and deep sobs 
convulsed men and women. 

Mandy, dry eyed and impassive, followed every move- 
ment of the speaker, and suddenly a strange tumult seemed 
to rise within her, a wild emotion surged over her. Her 
intense gaze caught his sweeping glance for a moment, and 
in an instant that expression of shrinking fear grew into her 
eyes. Again the minister’s dark eyes sought hers with 
unconscious questioning. She cowered low into hei seat, 
and hid her face in her hands. 

His voice had grown tender. Nothing will hide the 
brand of C aiu on earth save woman’s dove, ^dothing will 
save from sin but God’s love. The two are from the same 
source, they are both of Divine origin, and come from 
Heaven. When God’s love was taken from me, in the 
darkest hour of my life, that of a woman remained, and 
saved me from disgrace ! Saved me from myself ! Saved 
me to lead a better life, and gave the opportunity to redeem 


MENDING MANDY. 


127 


that past, that had embittered her life. She gave her hap- 
piness, her future, for me, and when the law set me free, I 
determined to be worthy of the sacrifice she had made, to 
be worthy of God’s love, through that woman’s love.” 
There was a hush of exjiectancy. “I believe her prayers 
have made me what I am, oh brethren, she stood up before 
me, after 1 had done the greatest wrong to her and those 
belonging to her, and pitied me, with a liivine compassion, 
and forgave me, with a forgiveness that was Ohristlike.” 

Indeed, there had never been a revival like that conducted 
by Brother Edmonds, at Hard Scramble, or anywhere else 
in the country, it was said. 

When he had finished his sermon he exhorted them to 
come forward and testify their willingness to lead a better 
life. Me:), women and children crowded forward. The 
enthusiasm was unbounded. Mandy, in the depths of her 
capacious sunbonnet, sat on the emptied bench — convulsive 
tremors shook her form. .Mrs. Spiller, even under the stress 
of personal excitement, noted the fact that Mandy was 
powerful wrought upon.” 

And she spoke the truth, but not in the manner she 
imagined. Mandy was letting the bitter waters of renun- 
ciation sweep around her. Her self-abnegation was not 
over yet. It could only end with her life. For one moment, 
a hope, as brief lived as a falling star, shot across her heart, 
then she bowed her Lead again over that buried Past, and 
knew it could not be resurrected. One thought fiashed 
through her sluggish brain, and seemed to set its long 
slumbering faculties in motion. He had gone on with the 
world, she had fallen years behind. He had outgrown her 
mentally 5 had expanded intellectually j had studied j had 
acquired. She had dwarfed her native intellect; had wrap- 
ped herself up in stolid indifference ; had bound her broken 
life up in an apathy, that lessened her capacity for thought. 
A lifetime separated them, and Ike’s grave was still between 
them. 

^ Brother Edmonds, seeking up and down the aisles the 
timid souls, who were not courageous enough to go forward 


128 


MENDING MAN Dr. 


to the iDouriier^s beDch, saw the aged woman — bowed low 
in evident want of spiritual comfort, went to her, and laying- 
his hand upon her head, said gently : 

“God bless you, my sister.’^ 

Poor Mandy, it seemed as if she must bill at his feet, 
crying: 

“Buck, don’t you know me, your wife, Amanda But 
she only covered her face and wept, as sbe had not done 
since she came with old John Alsen to C , on her wed- 

ding day. That Past see ded evolved in tears. 

The minister spoke a few comforting words to her and 
passed on, leaving “Mending Mandy” thrilling beneath the 
sound of his voice, and trembling at remembered touch of 
his hand. She had learned that when the preliminary trial 
had been held, there was no evidence against Buck Ed- 
monds, and since then she had drifted far away and had 
known nothing of anyone belonging to her Past. 

Not one day in all those years had passed, however, that 
she had not prayed for the safety of Buck. Her untutored 
lips had shaped a prayer tdeasing to the Almighty when 
she asked that he might lead a life doing good to his fellow- 
men. He had testified before that assembly that her sacri- 
fice had not been in vain. 

Buck Edmonds, as he passed up the length of arbor, 
speaking reassuring words here, invoking blessings there, 
and praying with the sinner, and rejoicing with the saints, 
little dreamed he had been so near the consummation of 
his heart’s desire. How could he recognize Amanda, the 
trim youthful bride of his young manhood in the bowed 
form and gray head of an ill dressed old woman, at Hard 
Scramble? Amanda had become an ideal to him, which 
time, sorrow nor change had affected. She was his heart’s 
wife, his soul’s chosen one. Having lost her, he had 
enshrined her memory, and known no other love, save a 
spiritual. 

Mandy slipped unnoticed from the place of worship, and 
made her way towards home. The song, “God be with you 
’till we meet again,” with which the meeting closed, fell 


MENDING MANDY. 


129 


upon her ears, as she went down che road with a strange 
significance. She knew they could never meet again in 
this world and look into EACH other^s eyes and understand. 
But what did it matter, when both were so far on the jour- 
ney? The end was near She felt her life had not been in 
vain. Her sacrifice had borne fruit in a way she had not 
foreseen. She thought of the harvest of souls he had gar- 
nered, of the homes he had made happier, and what was 
one woman’s heart, broken, one woman’s life spoilt, to 
measure against such immeasurable good? 

And so ‘^Mending Mandy” reasoned as she sat on her 
cabin steps in the twilight that evening after Brother 
Edmonds liad closed his successful revival, and gone on to 
some other point to labor in his Master’s vineyard. 

She watched the crimson glow fade, leaving a soft purple 
canopy overhead with golden edge resting upon the pine 
trees, and like a martyr, smiled. She watched the shadows 
darken over the hills, and the glow die out of the West, and 
like a woman, wept. 



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